golMn^indmill 

AND  OtHER  STORIES 


STACY  AUMONIER  - 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


•Tl^^^- 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK    •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO  -    DALLAS 
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MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

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MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


THE 
GOLDEN  WINDMILL 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 

STACY  AUMONIER 

Author  of 
"One  After  Another,"  etc. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1921 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,   1921. 
By  The  McCall  Company. 

Copyright,   1919  and  1920, 
By  The  Pictorial  Review  Company. 

Copyright,   1917,   1918   and  1920. 
By  The  Century  Company. 

Copyright,  1921, 
By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.      Published  March,  1921. 


(aOOl 


i 


TO 
J.  G. 


"iPf^ 


PREFACE 

"  Oh,  that  mine  enemy  would  write  a  hook  — 
of  short  stories." 

As  you  know,  it  is  considered  rather  provocative  to 
launch  a  book  of  short  stories.  It  is  asking  for  trouble. 
The  least  I  can  do  is  to  offer  a  brief  apology;  and  I 
cannot  do  this  v^^ithout  writing  a  preface,  which  requires 
an  apology  in  itself.  Unless  you  are  a  Bernard  Shaw 
you  find  a  preface  a  most  embarrassing  business. 
Having  written  the  stories  I  would  rather  talk  about 
anything  else  —  old  furniture,  for  instance.  Perhaps 
my  best  policy  will  be  to  start  by  attacking  you,  O 
Reader,  friend  or  enemy,  as  the  case  may  be.  You  are 
a  most  exacting  fellow.  Far  more  exacting  than  a 
reader  of  novels,  or  works  of  reference,  or  even  his- 
tories ;  for  the  reason  that  your  criticism  follows  a  more 
circumscribed  tradition.  You  are  a  kind  of  gourmet 
whose  palate  is  acutely  sensitive  to  accustomed  flavors 
and  satieties.  It  is  always  easier  to  be  an  epicure  of 
a  small  repast  than  of  a  banquet.  A  novel  is  less  easily 
digested.  You  may  enjoy  it  in  parts,  or  derive  satis- 
faction from  the  matter,  or  from  the  manner  of  tell- 
ing, but  with  a  short  story  you  require  a  honne  houche. 

You  have  a  most  arbitrary  standard.     When  you  raise 

vii 


viii  '  PREFACE 

youT  eyes  from  the  last  line  you  pass  through  a  most 
peculiar  mental  process.  It  all  takes  place  in  a  few 
seconds.  In  a  flash  you  see  the  shape  and  form  and 
color,  the  application  of  the  title,  the  point  of  the 
whole  thing.  You  demand  this,  and  you  also  demand 
to  have  your  senses  tickled  by  some  cunning  solution, 
and  to  be  soothed  by  something  unexpected  at  the  close. 
You  observe  it  as  a  whole,  in  the  same  way  that  you 
would  observe  a  water-color  sketch,  or  a  Sheraton  chair. 
You  may  afterwards  further  examine  the  sketch,  and 
even  sit  on  the  chair,  but  their  appeal  to  you  depends 
on  that  first  glance.  Otherwise  you  turn  away,  a  dis- 
satisfied and  disgruntled  gourmet.  To-morrow  you  will 
dine  elsewhere.  The  truth  is  your  sense  of  tradition 
had  been  outraged. 

Fortunately  for  you,  and  for  me,  tradition  is  a  fine 
thing.  Nothing  comes  out  of  the  blue,  except  perhaps 
thunderbolts  and  they  are  not  really  very  useful  things, 
certainly  no  good  to  any  one  trying  to  create,  Chip- 
pendale, Sheraton,  or  Heppelwhite  were  all  men  of 
strong  individuality.  You  could  never  mistake  a 
Sheraton  chair  for  a  Chippendale,  or  a  Chippendale 
for  a  Heppelwhite ;  and  yet  they  were  all  craftsmen  who 
worked  on  strictly  traditional  lines.  The  same  may  be 
said  of  Turgenev,  Guy  de  Maupassant,  Joseph  Con- 
rad and  Tchekoff.  Please  do  not  think  that  I  am  men- 
tioning my  own  short  stories  in  the  same  breath  with 
the  stories  of  these  giants.  I  only  want  to  point  out 
to  you  that  those  of  us  who  desire  to  write  them  have  a 
noble  tradition  to  follow.     You  may  argue  that  the 


PREFACE  ix 

analogy  between  the  making  of  a  chair  and  the  crea- 
tion of  a  short  story  is  rather  far-fetched  for  the  reason 
tliat  the  plan  of  a  chair  has  long  since  been  fixed  and 
determined  by  the  nature  of  the  seated  attitude;  that 
until  we  find  a  new  way  of  sitting  down  the  plan  of 
the  chair  must  remain  the  same;  whereas  the  short 
story  may  wander  at  random  over  the  wide  fields  of 
human  nature.  To  this  I  will  reply  —  Has  human  na- 
ture altered  perceptibly  more  than  the  nature  of  the 
seated  attitude  ?  You  are  bound  to  agree  with  me  that 
it  hasn't.  The  Arabs  —  who  have  always  been  the 
best  story  tellers  —  have  stated  that  there  are  only  seven 
stories  in  the  world.  The  complications  of  what  is 
called  Social  Progi-ess  have  not  increased  the  number. 
They  have  rather  restricted  it.  The  emotions  can  do 
no  more  with  dollars  and  girders  than  they  used  to  be 
able  to  do  with  magic  carpets  and  languishing  houris. 
People  love,  hate,  struggle  and  fructify,  and  to  set  down 
their  story  is  a  nice  respectable  craft  with  a  fine  old 
tradition  —  very  like  chairmaking. 

The  two  crafts  have  another  point  in  common.  It 
is  the  business  of  them  both  to  make  you  comfortable. 
When  I  start  reading  a  story  by  Tchekoff  I  feel  com- 
fortable at  once.  On  quite  a  different  plane  I  feel  the 
same  with  that  remarkable  story-teller,  O.  Henry. 
They  may  shock  me,  or  thrill  me,  or  delight  me,  but 
I  know  it's  going  to  be  all  right.  My  sense  of  tradi- 
tion will  not  be  outraged.  Tchekoff  may  give  me  that 
accustomed  sense  of  satiety  by  a  mere  turn  of  a  phrase ; 
O.  Henry  by  some  amazing  double  surprise.     But  I 


X  PREFACE 

know  all  the  time  that  there  will  be  nothing  to  worry- 
about. 

In  these  stories,  then,  I  have  merely  tried  to  be  a 
good  apprentice  to  skilled  craftsmen.  I  claim  for  them 
no  originality  at  all.  Though  their  setting  is  entirely 
modern,  and  they  deal  with  such  things  as  fried-fish 
shops,  and  public-houses,  and  the  like,  they  are  just  the 
same  old  seven  stories  told  in  the  bazaars  of  Ispahan 
three  thousand  years  ago.; 

If  through  them  all  you  feel  something  which  links 
them  together,  which  moreover  makes  you  and  me  more 
intimate  with  each  other,  then  I  shall  feel  as  happy  as 
Sheraton's  apprentice  must  have  felt  when  some  noble 
patron  of  the  master's  stopped  in  the  workshops  to  give 
him  a  word  of  encouragement. 

Stacy  Aumonier. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

TiiK  Golden  Windmill 3 

A  Source  of  Irritation 35 

The  Brothers 59 

"  Old  Iron  " '^9 

Little  White  Frock 109 

A  Good  Action 137 

Them  Others 169 

The  Bent  Tree 199 

The  Great  Unimpressionable 213 


THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL 

AT  the  top  of  the  hill  the  party  halted.  It  had 
been  a  long  trek  up  and  the  sun  was  hot.  Mon- 
sieur Roget  fanned  himself  with  his  hat,  and 
his  eye  alighted  on  a  large  pile  of  cut  fern-leaves. 

"  But  this  will  suit  me  admirably !  "  he  remarked, 
and  he  plumped  his  squat  little  figure  down,  and  tak- 
ing out  his  large  English  pipe  he  began  to  stuff  tobacco 
into  it. 

"  My  little  one,"  said  his  stout  wife,  "  I  should  not 
advise  you  to  go  to  sleep.  You  know  that  to  do  so  in 
the  afternoon  always  gives  you  an  indisposition." 

"  Oh,  la  la !  'No,  no,  no,  I  do  not  go  to  sleep,  but 
—  this  position  suits  me  admirably !  "  he  replied. 

"  Oh,  papa,  papa !  .  .  .  lazybones !  "  exclaimed  his 
pretty  daughter  Louise.  "  And  if  we  leave  you,  you 
will  sleep  like  a  dormouse." 

"  It  is  very  hot!  "  rejoined  the  father. 

"  Leave  him  alone,"  said  Madame  Roget,  "  and  we 
will  go  down  to  that  place  that  looks  like  an  inn,  and  see 
whether  they  will  sell  us  milk.     Where  is  Lisette  ?  " 

"  Lisette !     Where  should  she  be  ?  " 

And  of  course  it  was  foolish  to  ask.  Lisette,  the 
younger  daughter,  had  been  lost  in  the  wood  on  the 
way  up,  with  her  fiance,  Paul  Fasquelle.     Indeed,  the 


4  THE  GOLDEN"  WINDMILL 

party  had  all  become  rather  scattered.  It  is  a  pecul- 
iarity of  picnics.  Monsieur  Roget's  eldest  son,  Anton, 
was  playing  at  see-saw  with  his  three  children  on  the 
trunk  of  a  fallen  tree.  His  wife  was  talking  to  Madame 
Aubert,  and  occasionally  glancing  up  to  exclaim: 

"  Careful,  my  darlings !  " 

Monsieur  Roget  was  left  alone. 

He  lighted  his  pipe,  and  blinked  at  the  sun.     One 
has  to  have  reached  a  mature  age  to  appreciate  to  the 
full  the  narcotic  seductiveness  of  good  tobacco  on  the 
system,  when  the  sun  is  shining  and  there  is  no  wind. 
If  there  is  wind  all  the  pleasant  memories  and  dreams 
are  blown  away,  but  if  there  is  no  wind  the  sun  be- 
comes a  kind,  confidential  old  fellow.     He  is  very,  very 
mature.     And  Monsieur  Roget  was  mature.     He  was 
fifty-nine  years  old,  given  to  corpulence,  rather  moist 
and  hot,  but  eminently  comfortable  leaning  against  the 
pile  of  ferns.     A  glorious  view  across  the  woods  of 
Eontainebleau  lay  stretched  before  him,  the  bees  droned 
in  the  young  gorse,  his  senses  tingled  with  a  pleasurable 
excitement,  and,  as  a  man  will  in  such  moments,  he  en- 
joyed a  sudden  crystallized  epitome  of  his  whole  life. 
His   struggles,    and   failures,    and   successes.     On   the 
whole  he  had  been  a  successful  man.     If  he  died  to- 
morrow, his  beloved  ones  would  be  left  in  more  than 
comfort.     Many   thousand   francs   carefully   invested, 
some  house-property  in  the  Rue  Renoir,  the  three  comes- 
tibles establishments  all  doing  reasonably  well. 

Things  had  not  always  been  like  that.     There  had 
been  long  years  of  anxiety,  worry  and  even  poverty. 


THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL  5 

He  had  worked  hard  and  it  had  been  a  bitter  struggle. 
When  the  children  ivere  children,  that  had  been  the 
anxious  time.  It  made  Monsieur  Roget  shudder  to  look 
back  on  it.  But,  God  be  praised !  he  had  been  fortunate, 
very  fortunate  in  his  life-companion.  During  that 
anxious  time,  Madame  Eoget  had  been  patient,  encour- 
aging, incredibly  thrifty,  competent,  resourceful,  a 
loyal  wife,  a  very  —  Frenchwoman.  And  they  had 
come  through.  He  was  now  a  proud  grandfather. 
Both  his  sons  were  doing  well,  and  were  married. 
Lisette  was  engaged  to  a  very  desirable  young  advo- 
cate. Of  Louise  there  need  be  no  apprehension.  In 
fact,  everything.  .  .  . 

"  Name  of  a  dog !  that's  very  curious,"  suddenly 
thought  Monsieur  Roget,  interrupting  his  own  pleasant 
reflections. 

And  for  some  minutes  he  could  not  determine  exactly 
what  it  was  that  was  curious.  He  had  been  idly  gaz- 
ing at  the  clump  of  buildings  lower  down  the  hill, 
whither  his  wife  and  daughter  had  gone  in  search,  of 
milk.  Perhaps  the  perfume  of  the  young  gorse  had 
something  to  do  with  it,  but  as  he  looked  at  the  build- 
ings, he  thought: 

"  It's  very  familiar,  and  it's  very  unfamiliar.  In 
fact,  it's  gone  wrong.  They've  been  monkeying  with 
that  gable  on  the  east  side,  and  they've  built  a  new  loft 
over  the  stables." 

But  how  should  he  know?  What  was  the  gable  to 
him?  or  he  to  the  gable?  He  drew  in  a  large  mouth- 
ful of  smoke,  held  it  for  some  seconds,  and  then  blew 


6  THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL 

it  out  in  a  cloud  round  his  head.  Where  was  this? 
When  had  he  been  here  before?  They  had  driven  out 
to  a  village  called  Pavane-en-Bois,  and  from  there  they 
had  walked,  and  walked,  and  walked.  He  may  have 
been  here  before,  and  have  come  from  another  direc- 
tion. .  .  . 

"  Oo-eh !  " 

Monsieur  Roget  was  glad  that  he  was  alone  when  he 
uttered  this  exclamation,  which  cannot  convey  what  it 
is  meant  to  in  print.  Of  course,  across  there  on  the 
other  side  of  the  clearing  was  the  low  stone  wall,  and 
the  reliquary  with  the  figure  of  the  Virgin,  and  doubt- 
less at  the  bottom  of  the  slope  the  other  side  would  be 

—  the  well ! 

It  was  exactly  on  this  spot  that  he  had  met  Diane 

—  God  in  heaven !  how  long  ago  ?  Ten,  twenty,  thirty. 
.  .  .  Exactly  thirty-seven  years  ago ! 

And  how  vividly  it  could  all  come  back  to  one  1 
He  was  twenty-two  then,  a  slim  young  man  —  con- 
sidered elegant  and  rather  distinguished-looking  by  some 
people  —  an  orphan,  without  either  brothers  or  sisters, 
the  inheritor  of  a  quite  substantial  competence  from 
his  father,  who  had  been  a  ship-broker  at  Marseilles. 
He  had  gone  to  Paris  to  educate  himself  and  to  pre- 
pare for  a  commercial  career.  He  was  a  serious  young 
man,  with  modest  ambitions,  rather  moody  and  given  to 
abstract  speculations.  Paris  bewildered  him,  and  he 
used  to  escape  when  he  could,  and  seek  solitude  in  the 
country.  At  length  he  decided  that  he  must  settle  down 
to  some  definite  career,  and  he  became  articled  to  a 


thp:  golden  windmill  7 

firm  of  chartered  accountants:  Messrs.  Manson  et  Cie. 
He  took  rooms  at  a  quiet  pension  near  the  Luxembourg, 
and  there  fell  in  love  with  his  patron's  daughter,  Lucile, 
a  demure  and  modest  brunette.  The  affair  was  almost 
settled,  but  not  quite.  Monsieur  Roget,  even  in  those 
days,  was  a  man  who  never  put  his  leg  over  the  wall 
till  he  had  seen  the  other  side.  He  was  circumspect, 
cautious,  and  there  was  indeed  plenty  of  time. 

And  then  one  day  he  had  found  himself  on  this  iden- 
tical hillock.  He  could  not  quite  clearly  remember  how 
he  came  to  be  there.  Probably  he  had  come  for  the 
day,  to  escape  the  clamor  of  Paris.  He  certainly  had 
no  luggage.  He  was  seated  on  this  spot,  dreaming  and 
enjoying  the  view,  when  he  heard  a  cry  coming  from 
the  other  side  of  the  low  stone  wall.  He  jumped  up 
and  ran  to  it,  and  lo!  on  the  other  side  he  beheld  — 
Diane!  The  name  was  peculiarly  appropriate.  She 
was  lying  there  on  her  side  like  a  wounded  huntress. 
"When  she  caught  sight  of  him  she  called  out: 

"  Ah,  monsieur,  will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  help  me  ?  I 
fear  I  have  sprained  my  ankle." 

Paul  Roget  leapt  the  wall  and  ran  to  her  assistance. 
(The  thought  of  leaping  a  wall  now  made  him  gasp!) 
He  lifted  her  up,  trembling  himself,  and  making  sym- 
pathetic little  clucks  with  his  tongue. 

"  Pardon,  pardon !  very  distressing !  "  he  munnured, 
when  she  stood  erect. 

"  If  monsieur  will  be  good  enough  to  allow  me  to 
rest  my  hand  on  his  shoulder,  I  shall  be  able  to  hop 
back  to  the  auherge." 


8  THE  GOLDEK  WINDMILL 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure.     Allow  me." 

On  the  ground  was  an  upturned  pail.     He  remarked : 

"  Would  it  distress  mademoiselle  to  stand  for  one 
minute,  whilst  I  re-fill  the  pail  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no,"  she  exclaimed..  "  Do  not  inconven- 
ience yourself." 

"  Then  perhaps  mademoiselle  will  allow  me  to  return 
for  the  pail  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  if  you  please !     My  father  will  do  it." 

She  leant  on  his  shoulder  and  hopped  a  dozen  paces. 

"  How  did  it  happen,  mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  Imbecile  that  I  am !  I  think  I  was  dreaming.  I 
had  filled  the  pail  and  was  descending  the  embankment 
when  I  slipped.  I  tried  to  step  across  the  pail,  but 
caught  my  foot  in  the  rim.  And  then  —  I  don't  know 
quite  what  happened.  I  fell.  It  is  the  other  ankle 
which  I  fear  I  have  sprained." 

"  I  am  indeed  most  desolated.     Is  it  far  to  the  inn  ?  " 

"  You  see  it  yonder,  monsieur.  It  is  perhaps  ten 
minutes'  walk,  but  twenty  minutes'  hop." 

She  laughed  gayly,  and  Monsieur  Roget  said  sol- 
emnly : 

"  If  I  might  suggest  it  —  I  think  it  would  be  more 
comfortable  for  Mademoiselle  if  she  would  condescend 
to  place  her  arm  round  my  neck." 

"  It  is  too  good  of  you." 

They  proceeded  another  hundred  paces  in  silence, 
and  then  rested  against  a  stile.  Suddenly  she  gave 
him  one  of  her  quick  glances,  and  said: 

"  You  are  very  silent,  monsieur." 


THE  GOLDEX  WINDMILL  9 


>> 


"  I  was  thinking  —  how  very  beautiful  the  day  is. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  not  thinking  anything  of 
the  sort.  He  was  in  a  fever.  He  was  thinking  how 
very  beautiful,  adorable,  attractive  this  lovely  wild 
creature  was  hanging  round  his  neck.  He  had  never 
before  adventured  such  an  experience.  He  had  never 
kissed  Lucile.  Women  were  an  unopened  book  to  him, 
and  lo!  suddenly  the  most  captivating  of  her  sex  was 
clinging  to  him.  He  felt  the  pressure  of  her  soft 
brown  forearm  on  the  back  of  his  neck.  Her  little 
teeth  were  parted  with  smiles,  and  she  panted  gently 
with  the  exertion  of  hopping.  Her  dark  eyes  searched 
his,  and  appeared  to  be  slightly  mocking,  amused,  inter- 
ested. 

"  If  only  I  might  pick  her  up  and  carry  her,"  he 
thought,  but  he  did  not  dare  to  mate  the  suggestion. 

Once  she  remarked : 

"  Oh,  but  I  am  tired,"  and  he  thought  she  looked  at 
him  slyly. 

The  journey  must  have  occupied  half-an-hour,  and 
she  told  him  a  little  about  herself.  She  lived  with  her 
father.  Her  mother  had  died  when  she  was  a  baby. 
It  was  quite  a  small  inn,  frequented  by  charcoal-burners 
and  woodmen,  and  occasionally  by  visitors  from  Paris. 
She  liked  the  country  very  much,  but  sometimes  it  was 
dull  —  oh,  dull,  dull,  dull ! 

"  Ah,  it  is  sometimes  dull,  even  in  Paris !  "  sighed 
Monsieur  Roget. 

"  You  must  come  and  speak  to  my  father,  and  take 
a  glass  of  wine,"  she  remarked. 


10  THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL 

In  the  forecourt  of  the  inn  the  father  appeared. 

"  Hullo !  "  he  exclaimed.     "  What  is  all  this  ?  " 

He  was  a  rubicund,  heavy-jo wled  gentleman,  who  by 
the  wheezy  exhalations  coming  from  his  chest  gave  the 
impression  of  being  a  chronic  sufferer  from  asthma. 
Diane  laughed. 

"  I  have  been  through  fire  and  water,  my  dear,"  she 
said,  "  and  this  is  my  deliverer." 

She  explained  the  whole  episode  to  the  landlord,  who 
shook  hands  with  Paul,  and  they  led  the  girl  into  a 
sitting-room  at  the  back  of  the  cafe.  Paul  was  some- 
what diffident  about  entering  this  private  apartment, 
but  the  landlord  wheezed: 

"  Come  in,  come  in,  monsieur." 

They  sat  Diane  down  on  a  sofa,  and  the  landlord 
pulled  off  her  stocking.  In  doing  so  he  revealed  his 
daughter's  leg  as  far  as  the  knee.  She  had  a  very 
pretty  leg,  but  the  ankle  was  considerably  swollen. 

"  The  ankle  is  sprained,"  said  the  landlord. 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  go  and  fetch  a  doctor  ?  " 
asked  Paul. 

"  It  is  not  necessary,"  replied  the  landlord.  "  I 
know  all  about  sprained  ankles.  When  I  was  in  the 
anny  I  served  in  the  ambulance  brigade.  W^e  will 
just  bind  it  up  very  tight  with  cold  linen  bandages. 
Does  it  hurt,  little  one  ?  " 

"  Not  very  —  yet.  It  tingles.  I  feel  that  it  may. 
Won't  you  offer  Monsieur  —  I  do  not  know  his  name 
—  some  refreshment  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  Paul  Koget,"  said  that  gentleman,  bow- 


THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL  11 

ing.  "  But  please  do  not  consider  me.  The  sufferer 
must  be  attended  first.  Later  on,  I  would  like  to  be 
permitted  to  partake  of  a  little  lunch  in  the  inn." 

While  the  landlord,  whose  name  was  Jules  Couturier, 
was  binding  up  his  daughter's  ankle,  Paul  slipped  out 
and  returned  to  the  well,  filled  the  pail,  and  brought  it 
back  to  the  yard  of  the  inn. 

"  But  this  is  extremely  agreeable  of  you,  monsieur," 
exclaimed  the  landlord,  as  he  came  bustling  through  the 
porch.  "  She  will  do  well.  I  know  all  about  sprained 
ankles.  Oh,  yes!  I  have  had  great  experience.  I  beg 
you  to  share  a  little  lunch  with  us.  We  are  quite 
simple  folk,  but  I  think  we  may  find  you  an  omelette 
and  a  ragout.  Quite  country  people,  you  know ;  noth- 
ing elaborate." 

The  lunch  was  excellent,  and  Diane  had  the  sofa 
drawn  up  to  the  table,  and  in  spite  of  the  pain  she 
must  have  been  suffering,  she  laughed  and  joked,  and 
they  were  quite  a  merry  party.  After  lunch  he  helped 
to  wheel  her  out  into  the  crab-apple  orchard  at  thd 
back,  and  he  told  her  all  about  himself,  his  life  and 
work,  and  ambitions.  He  told  her  everything,  except 
perhaps  about  Lucile.  And  he  felt  very  strange,  ele- 
vated, excited. 

When  the  evening  came  he  left  it  till  too  late  to  catch 
the  train  back  to  Paris,  and  the  landlord  lent  him  some 
things  and  he  stayed  the  night. 

He  stayed  three  nights,  and  wrote  to  Messrs.  Manson 
et  Cie,  and  explained  that  he  had  gone  to  Pavane-en- 
Bois,  and  had  been  taken  ill.     He  wrote  the  same  thing 


12  THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL 

to  Lucile.  And  during  the  day  lie  talked  to  Diane, 
and  listened  to  the  landlord.  Sometimes  he  would 
wander  into  the  woods,  but  he  could  not  bring  himself 
to  stay  away  for  long.  He  brought  back  armfuls  of 
flowers  which  he  flung  across  her  lap.  He  touched  her 
hands,  and  trembled,  and  at  night  in  bed  he  choked 
with  a  kind  of  ecstasy  and  regret.  It  was  horribly 
distracting.  He  did  not  know  how  to  act.  He  was 
behaving  badly  to  Lucile,  and  dishonorably  to  Manson 
et  Cie.  His  conscience  smote  him,  but  the  other  little 
fiend  was  dancing  at  the  back  of  his  mind.  Nothing 
else  seemed  to  matter.  He  was  mad  —  madly  in  love 
with  this  little  dark-eyed  huntress. 

At  the  end  of  three  days  he  returned  to  Paris,  but 
not  till  he  had  promised  to  come  back  at  the  earliest 
opportunity. 

"  Perhaps  I  will  go  again  in  August,"  he  sighed  in 
the  train.     It  was  then  the  seventh  of  June. 

On  the  fifteenth  of  June  he  was  back  again  in  the 
"  Moulin  d'Or."  Diane  was  already  much  better. 
She  could  hobble  about  alone  with  the  help  of  two 
sticks.  She  was  more  bewitching  than  ever.  He 
stayed  three  weeks,  till  her  ankle  was  quite  well,  and 
they  could  go  for  walks  together  in  the  woods.  And 
he  called  her  Diane,  and  she  called  him  Paul.  And 
one  day,  as  the  sun  was  setting,  he  flung  his  arms 
round  her  and  gasped: 

"  Diane  .  .  -  Diane !     I  love  you !  " 

And  he  kissed  her  on  the  lips,  and  her  roguish  eyes 
searched  his. 


THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL  13 

"  Oh,  you !  "  she  murmured.  "  You  bad  boy  .  .  . 
you !  " 

"  But  I  love  you,  Diane.  I  want  you.  I  can't  live 
without  you.  You  must  come  away  with  me.  We  will 
get  married.  We  will  build  a  world  of  our  own.  Oh, 
you  beautiful !  Tell  me  you  love  me,  or  I  shall  go 
mad !  " 

She  laughed  that  low,  gurgling,  silvery  laugh  of 
hers. 

"  What  are  you  saying  ?  "  she  said.  "  How  should  I 
know  ?  I  think  you  are  —  a  nice  boy.  But  I  cannot 
leave  my  father." 

"  My  dear,  he  managed  all  the  time  you  had  to  lie 
with  your  foot  up.  Don't  torture  me !  Oh,  you  must 
love  me,  Diane.  I  couldn't  love  you  so  much  if  you 
didn't  love  me  a  little  in  return/' 

"  Perhaps  I  do,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"What  is  it,  then,  Diane?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  do  not  want  to  marry.  I 
want  to  be  free,  to  see  the  world.  I  am  ambitious.  I 
have  been  to  the  conservatoire  at  Souboise.  They  say 
I  can  sing  and  dance.  My  father  has  spent  his  savings 
on  me." 

"  Darling,  if  you  marry  me,  you  shall  be  free.  You 
shall  do  as  you  like.  You  shall  dance  and  sing  and 
see  the  world.  Everything  of  mine  shall  be  yours  if 
only  you  will  love  me.  You  must  —  you  must. 
Diane!  " 

"Well  .  .  .  we  shall  see.  Come;  father  will  be 
anxious." 


14  THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL 

In  July  he  left  his  pension  and  moved  out  to  Mont- 
mar  tre.  He  had  never  definitely  proposed  to  Lucile, 
but  his  expressions  of  affection  had  been  so  definite  that 
he  felt  ashamed.  He  spent  his  holiday  in  August  at  the 
"  Moulin  d'Or."  And  Diane  promised  to  marry  him 
"  one  day." 

"  Diane,"  he  said,  "  I  will  work  for  you.  You  have 
inspired  me.  I  shall  go  back  to  Paris  and  think  of  you 
all  day,  and  dream  of  you  all  night." 

"  That  won't  give  you  much  time  to  make  your 
fortune,  my  little  cabbage." 

"  Do  not  mock  me.     Where  would  you  like  to  live  ?  " 

"  In  Paris,  in  Nice,  in  Rome,  in  Vienna.  And  then, 
one  day,  I  would  like  to  creep  back  here  and  just  live  in 
the  '  Moulin  d'Or.'  " 

"  The  '  Moulin  d'Or  '  ?  " 

"  Oh,  we  could  improve  it.  We  could  build  an 
extra  wing,  with  a  dancing-hall,  and  more  nice  bed- 
rooms, and  a  garage.  We  could  improve  the  inn,  but 
we  could  not  improve  these  beautiful  hills.  Isn't  that 
true,  little  friend  ?  " 

"  Nothing  could  be  improved  where  you  are.  You 
are  perfection." 

"Yes,  but—" 

In  September  Diane  came  to  Paris.  She  stayed  with 
an  aunt  in  Parnasse,  and  attended  a  consei-vatoire  of 
dancing.  And  every  evening  Paul  called  on  her,  and 
took  her  flowers  and  chocolates  and  trinkets.  And  in 
the  daytime,  when  the  image  of  Diane's  face  did  not 
interpose  between  his  eyes   and  his  desk,  he  worked 


THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL  15 

hard.  He  meant  to  work  hard  and  become  a  rich  man, 
and  take  Diane  to  Nice,  and  Rome,  and  Vienna,  and 
make  the  structural  alterations  to  the  "  Moulin  d'Or." 

In  a  few  months'  time  Diane  made  such  progress 
that  she  was  oflfered  an  engagement  in  the  ballet  at 
Olympia.  She  accepted  it  and  Paul  was  consumed  with 
a  fever  of  apprehension.  Every  night  he  went  to  the 
performance,  waited  for  her,  and  escorted  her  home. 
But  he  disliked  the  atmosphere  of  the  music-hall  in- 
tensely, and  the  other  girls,  Diane's  companions  — 
Heaven  defend  her ! 

And  then  she  quarreled  with  her  aunt,  and  Paul  be- 
sought her  to  marry  him  so  that  he  might  protect  her. 
But  she  prevaricated,  and  in  the  end  he  took  some  rooms 
for  her,  and  she  consented  to  allow  him  to  pay  for 
them.  She  lived  there  for  several  weeks  alone,  only 
attended  by  an  old  concierge,  and  then  she  took  a 
friend,  Babette  Baroche,  to  share  the  rooms  with  her, 
and  Paul  still  continued  to  pay.  Paul  disliked  Babette. 
She  was  a  frivolous,  vain,  empty-headed  little  cocotte, 
and  no  fit  companion  for  Diane.  On  occasions  Paul 
discovered  other  men  enjoying  the  hospitality  of  the 
rooms,  and  they  were  always  of  an  objectionable  sort. 
And  Diane  got  into  debt,  and  he  lent  her  four  hundred 
francs. 

At  Christmas-time  she  was  dismissed  from  her  en- 
gagement, and  in  a  pei^icacious  mood  she  promised 
to  marry  him  in  the  spring.  Paul  was  delirious. 
Nothing  was  good  enough  for  his  Diane,  and  he  en- 
gaged a  complete  flat  for  her,  with  the  services  of  an 


16  THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL 

elderly  honne.  Diane  was  very  grateful  and  loving, 
and  in  the  transition  Babette  was  dropped.  However, 
a  few  weeks  after  he  had  signed  the  lease,  she  was 
offered  an  engagement  for  a  tour,  and  after  a  lengthy 
dispute  and  many  tears,  she  had  her  way  and  accepted 
it.  She  was  away  three  months,  and  Paul  was  con- 
sumed with  dread,  and  doubt,  and  gloomy  forebodings. 
On  occasions  he  dashed  down  to  Lyons,  or  Grenoble, 
or  wherever  she  happened  to  be,  for  the  week-end. 
And  he  thought  that  the  company  she  was  with  were  a 
very  fast  lot. 

"  But,  my  angel,"  he  would  exclaim,  "  only  another 
month  or  two,  and  all  this  will  be  over.  You  will  be 
mine  forever  and  ever." 

He  was  still  paying  the  rent  of  the  flat  in  Paris,  and 
it  was  necessary  to  send  Diane  flowers  and  presents 
wherever  she  was.  It  was  an  expensive  time,  par- 
ticularly as,  owing  to  Diane  having  had  her  purse 
stolen  just  when  she  was  paying  off  a  debt,  he  had  to 
send  her  another  four  hundred  francs.  She  returned 
at  the  end  of  March,  and  so  great  had  been  her  success 
on  tour  that  an  egregious,  oily  manager  named  Bonnat 
offered  her  a  part  in  a  new  revue.  She  received  a  good 
salary,  but  the  management  would  not  supply  her  frocks. 
It  was  necessary  to  dress  well  for  this  part.  It  was 
her  first  real  chance.  She  ransacked  shops  in  the  Rue 
de  Tivoli,  and  Paul  accompanied  her.  Eventually  she 
spent  twelve  hundred  francs  on  them,  and  Paul  ad- 
vanced the  money.     She  only  allowed  him  to  do  so  on 


THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL  17 

the  understanding  that  she  paid  him  back  by  install- 
ments out  of  her  salary.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  she 
never  did  so.  However,  the  frocks  were  a  great  suc- 
cess, and  Diane  made  a  hit.  She  was  undoubtedly 
talented.  She  danced  beautifully,  and  she  had  a  gift 
of  imitation.  She  very  quickly  became  a  star,  and  of 
course  a  star  could  not  scintillate  in  the  poky  little  flat 
she  had  so  far  occupied.  She  moved  to  a  more  fashion- 
able quarter,  and  occupied  a  flat  the  rent  of  which  was 
rather  more  than  her  salary  alone.  She  developed  more 
expensive  tastes,  and  nearly  always  kept  a  taxicab  wait- 
ing for  her  at  stage-doors  and  restaurants. 

At  this  time  Paul  began  to  realize  that  he  was  living 
considerably  above  his  income.  It  would  be  necessary 
to  reduce  it  by  breaking  into  his  capital.  He  sold  some 
house  property  and  paid  Diane's  debts  and  bought  her 
a  pearl  pendant. 

"  Next  month  she  will  be  ray  wife,"  he  thought, 
"  and  then  I  shall  be  able  more  easily  to  curb  these 
extravagancies." 

But  when  the  next  month  came  Diane  was  at  the 
height  of  her  success.  She  had  been  given  more  to 
do  in  the  revue,  and  her  imitations  were  drawing  the 
town.  The  management  raised  her  salary.  Her  head 
was  completely  turned. 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no !  dear  heart,"  she  exclaimed.  "  Not 
this  month.  At  the  end  of  the  season.  It  would  be  im- 
becile when  I  have  all  Paris  at  my  feet." 

Paul  begged  and  urged  her  to  reconsider,  but  she 


18  THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL 

was  obdurate.  She  continued  the  same  life,  only  that 
her  tastes  became  more  and  more  extravagant.  And 
one  day  Paul  took  her  to  task. 

"My  angel-flower,"  he  said,  "we  must  not  go  on 
like  this.  All  the  savings  for  our  wedding  are  vanish- 
ing. I  am  eating  into  my  capital.  We  shall  be 
ruined." 

"  But,  my  little  love,"  replied  Diane,  "  I  spend  so 
little.  Why,  you  should  see  the  electric  brougham 
Zenie  at  the  Folies  Bergeres  has.  Besides,  next  year,  or 
perhaps  before,  they  will  have  to  double  my  salary." 

"  Yes,  but  in  the  meantime  —  ?  " 

"In  the  meantime  your  little  girl  shall  kiss  away 
your  naughty  fears." 

And  of  course  Diane  soon  had  an  electric  brougham 
of  her  own.  The  more  salary  she  had,  the  more  it 
seemed  to  cost  Paul.  He  was  receiving  merely  a  nom- 
inal salary  himself  from  Messrs.  Manson  et  Cie,  where 
he  was  little  more  than  a  pupil.  However,  at  that 
time  he  managed  to  get  a  small  increase,  and  invested  a 
good  bulk  of  his  patrimony  in  a  rubber  company  that 
a  very  astute  business  friend  advised  him  about.  If 
the  shares  went  up  considerably  he  might  sell  out,  and 
reimburse  himself  for  all  these  inroads  on  his  capital. 

In  the  meantime  a  disturbing  element  crept  into  his 
love  affair.  A  depraved  young  fop,  the  Marquis  de 
Lavernal,  appeared  on  the  scene.  He  was  one  of  those 
young  men  who  have  plenty  of  money  and  frequent 
stage-doors.  He  was  introduced  by  Babette,  whom  he 
almost  immediately  forsook  for  Diane.     He  called  upon 


THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL  19 

her,  left  more  expensive  flowers  and  chocolates  than 
Paul  could  afford,  and  one  day  took  her  to  Longchamps 
in  his  car. 

Paul  was  furious. 

"  This  man  must  not  come  here,"  he  exclaimed.  "  I 
shall  kill  him!" 

"  Oo-oh !  but  why  ?  He  is  quite  a  nice  boy.  He  is 
nothing  to  me.     He  is  Babette's  friend," 

"  I  don't  trust  him.  I  won't  have  him  here.  Do 
you  understand,  Diane  ?  I  love  you  so,  I  am  distracted 
when  that  kind  of  person  speaks  to  you !  " 

"  Oo-oh !  " 

Diane  promised  not  to  see  him  again  alone,  but  Paul 
was  dubious.  The  trouble  was  that  he  did  not  know 
what  went  on  in  the  daytime.  In  the  evening  he  could 
to  a  certain  extent  protect  her.  But  in  tlie  daytime  — 
that  raven !  that  ogi-e !  that  blood-sucker !  He  was  the 
kind  of  man  who  had  the  entree  of  all  theaters,  both 
the  back  and  the  front.  He  went  about  with  parties  of 
girls.  Diane  explained  that  it  was  impossible  some- 
times not  to  meet  him.  He  was  always  with  her 
friends. 

At  the  end  of  July  Paul  had  a  stroke  of  fortune. 
The  rubber  shares  he  had  bought  went  up  with  a  great 
boom,  quite  suddenly.  He  sold  out  and  netted  a  con- 
siderable sum.  And  then  he  had  a  brilliant  inspiration. 
He  would  tell  Diane  nothing  of  this.  He  had  plans  of 
his  own. 

One  day  he  took  the  train  and  went  down  to  see  his 
prospective  father-in-law  at  the  "  Moulin  d'Or."     Tlie 


20  THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL 

old  man  was  wheezier  than  ever,  but  very  cordial  and 
friendly. 

"  Well,  my  boy,  how  goes  it  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Excellently,"  said  Paul.  "  Now,  father-in-law,  I 
have  a  proposition  to  make.  Diane  and  I  are  to  be 
married  after  the  summer  season.  It  has  always  been 
her  ambition  to  live  at  the  '  Moulin  d'Or.'  But  she 
has  spoken  of  improvements.  I  want  to  suggest  to  you 
with  all  respect  that  you  allow  me  to  make  those  im- 
provements. I  would  like  to  do  it  without  her  know- 
ing it,  and  then  to  bring  her  down  as  a  great  surprise." 

"  Well,  well,  very  agreeable,  I'm  sure.  And  why 
not?     It  would  be  very  charming!  " 

"  I  suggest  building  a  new  wing,  with  a  dancing-hall 
and  several  nice  bedrooms,  and  a  garage;  and  laying 
out  the  gardens  more  suitably." 

"  Well,  good !  It  would  be  very  desirable,  and  con- 
ducive to  good  business.  You  may  rely  upon  me  to 
assist  you  in  your  project,  Monsieur  Paul." 

"  I  am  indeed  grateful  to  you,  Monsieur  Couturier." 

Paul  returned  to  Paris  in  high  spirits.  He  made 
l)lans  of  the  suggested  alterations  on  the  back  of  an 
envelope,  in  the  train.  The  next  morning  he  went  to 
an  eminent  firm  of  contractors.  So  feverish  was  he  in 
his  demands  that  he  persuaded  them  to  send  a  manager 
down  that  very  day  to  take  particulars  and  prepare 
the  estimate.  The  work  was  commenced  the  same 
week. 

In  the  meantime,  Diane  had  bought  some  expensive 
little  dogs,  because  Fleurie  at  the  Odeon  kept  expensive 


THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL  21 

little  dogs,  and  a  new  silver  tea-service  because  Lucie 
Castille  at  the  Moulin  Rouge  had  a  silver  tea-service. 
And  Paul  was  surprised  because  neither  of  the  accounts 
for  these  luxuries  was  sent  to  him.  Diane  said  she 
had  paid  for  them  herself,  but  the  little  demons  of 
jealousy  were  still  gnawing  away  at  his  heart. 

The  revue  was  to  terminate  at  the  end  of  the  third 
week  in  August,  and  Paul  said: 

"  And  then,  my  love,  we  will  mai'r}'^  quietly  in  Paris, 
and  then  we  will  do  the  grand  tour.  We  will  go  to 
Nice,  and  Rome,  and  Vienna,  and  commence  our  eter- 
nal honeymoon  at  the  '  Moulin  d'Or.'  " 

Diane  clapped  her  hands. 

"  Won't  that  be  beautiful,  my  beloved !  "  she  ex- 
claimed, and  she  twined  her  sinuous  arms  around  his 
neck.  "  Fancy !  just  you  and  I  alone  at  the  dear 
'  Moulin  d'Or !  Ah !  and  then  we  will  go  to  Venice, 
and  to  Munich.  Good  gracious !  It  will  be  soon  time 
to  think  about  the  frocks  and  trousseau !  " 

Paul's  heart  swelled.  The  trousseau !  Diane  was  be- 
coming serious.  There  had  been  moments  when  he  had 
doubted  whether  she  meant  to  marry  him  at  all,  but 
—  the  trousseau!  Why,  yes,  the  matter  must  be  at- 
tended to  at  once.  They  spent  three  weeks  buying 
Diane's  trousseau.  Nearly  every  day  she  thought  of 
something  fresh,  some  little  trifle  that  was  quite  indis- 
pensable. When  the  bills  came  in  they  amounted  to 
twenty-two  thousand  francs !  Paul  was  aghast.  He 
had  no  idea  it  was  possible  to  spend  so  much  on  those 
flimsy   fabrics.     And   furniture   had   yet   to   be   2>ur- 


22  THE  GOLDEN  WIIs^DMILL 

chased.  He  went  to  his  astute  business  friend  again, 
and  begged  for  some  enticing  investment.  He  was 
recommended  a  Nicaraguan  Company  that  was  just 
starting.  They  had  acquired  the  rights  of  a  new 
method  of  refining  oih  It  was  going  to  be  a  big  thing. 
With  the  exception  of  a  sum  of  money  to  pay  for  the 
improvements  at  the  "  Moulin  d'Or  "  Paul  put  prac- 
tically the  whole  of  his  capital  into  the  Nicaraguan 
Company. 

l^early  every  day  he  called  at  the  contractor's,  or 
sent  frenzied  telegrams  to  Monsieur  Couturier  to  in- 
quire how  the  work  was  progressing.  At  length  he 
received  a  verbal  promise  that  the  whole  thing  would 
be  completed  by  about  the  twentieth  of  September. 

Excellent !  That  would  fit  in  admirably.  It  would 
give  him  a  month's  honeymoon  with  his  beautiful 
Diane,  and  then,  one  glorious  September  evening,  he 
would  drive  up  the  hill,  and  jumping  out  of  the  car 
in  the  new  drive  he  would  be  able  to  exclaim : 

"  Behold !     Do  not  all  your  dreams  come  true  ?  " 

And  Diane  would  fling  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and 
the  old  father  would  come  toddling  out  and  find  them  in 
that  position,  and  he  would  probably  weep,  and  it  would 
all  be  very  beautiful.. 

A  few  days  later  there  was  a  rather  distressing  in- 
cident. Quite  on  her  own  responsibility  Diane  ordered 
a  suite  of  Louis  XVI  furniture.  They  were  fabulously 
expensive  copies.  Paul  had  nothing  like  enough  money 
to  pay  for  it.     He  did  not  want  to  sell  his  Nicaraguan 


THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL  23 

shares.  In  fact,  he  had  only  just  applied  for  them. 
He  protested  vehemently: 

"  But,  my  dear,  you  ought  not  to  have  done  this ! 
It  is  ruinous.     We  cannot  afford  it." 

"  But,  my  Carlo,  one  must  sit  down !  " 

"  One  need  not  pay  fifteen  thousand  francs  to  sit 
down!" 

"Oo-oh!" 

Paul  knew  the  evidence  of  approaching  tears,  and 
he  endeavored  to  stem  the  tide.  In  the  end  he  went 
to  a  money-lender  and  borrowed  the  money  at  an  ab- 
normal rate  of  interest,  and  then  he  went  to  Diane  and 
said : 

"  My  beloved,  you  must  promise  me  not  to  spend 
any  more  money  without  my  consent.  The  conse- 
quences may  be  serious.  My  affairs  are  already  get- 
ting very  involved.     You  must  promise  me." 

Diane  promised,  and  the  next  day  drove  to  his  office 
in  a  great  state  of  excitement.  Bonnat  had  been  to 
see  her.  They  wanted  to  take  the  revue  for  a  two 
months'  tour  to  Brittany  and  Normandy,  commencing 
at  Dinard  on  August  22nd.  He  had  offered  her  daz- 
zling terms.  She  simply  must  go.  It  might  be  her 
last  chance.  The  wedding  must  be  postponed  till  the 
end  of  October.  Paul  protested,  and  they  both  became 
angry  and  cried  before  two  other  clerks  in  Messrs. 
Manson's  office.  They  parted  without  anything  being 
settled.  When  he  saw  her  at  night  after  the  theater, 
she  had  signed  the  contract.     And  Paul  returned  to 


24  THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL 

his  rooms,  and  bit  liis  pillow  with,  remorse  and  grief. 

On  the  twenty-first  of  August  Diane  locked  up  her 
trousseau,  and  the  furniture,  and  left  with  the  com- 
pany for  Dinard.  And  Paul  wrote  to  her  every  day, 
and  she  replied  once  a  week,  and  occasionally  sent  him 
a  telegram  announcing  a  prodigious  success.  Only 
occasionally  did  he  get  an  opportunity  of  going  to  her 
over  a  week-end.  The  journeys  were  very  long  and  he 
resented  spending  the  money.  In  only  one  way  did  he 
derive  any  satisfaction  from  that  tour.  The  building 
work  —  like  all  building  work  —  could  not  possibly  be 
completed  in  the  time  specified.  If  they  had  arrived 
there  on  the  twenty-first  of  September,  his  beautiful 
Diane  would  have  found  the  place  all  bricks  and  mortar 
and  muddle.  As  it  was,  it  would  be  comfortably  fin- 
ished by  the  middle  of  October. 

When  not  going  to  Diane  he  would  spend  Sunday 
with  Monsieur  Couturier,  who  was  keenly  excited  about 
the  improvement  to  his  inn.  It  was  going  to  be  very 
good  for  the  business.  All  the  countryside  spoke  of  it. 
The  patron  of  the  "  Colonne  de  Bronze,"  further  down 
the  hill,  was  furious,  and  this  was  naturally  a  matter 
of  satisfaction  to  Monsieur  Couturier.  He  was  proud 
of  and  devoted  to  his  future  son-in-law. 

At  the  end  of  September  came  the  gi-eat  blow.  Paul 
heard  of  it  first  through  the  newspapers.  The  Nicara- 
guan  Company  had  failed.  The  refining  process  had 
proved  efficient,  but  far  more  expensive  to  work  than 
any  other  refining  process.  The  company  was  wound 
up,  and  the  shareholders  received  about  2^/^  per  cent. 


THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL  25 

on  their  investments.  Paul  was  practically  ruined. 
He  would  have  to  pay  for  the  building  of  the  "  ^Moulin 
d'Or."  Be^'ond  that  he  had  only  a  few  thousand  francs, 
and  he  had  to  meet  the  promissory  note  of  the  money- 
lenders, lie  wrote  to  Diane  and  confessed  the  whole 
story.  She  sent  him  a  telegram  which  simply  said: 
"  Courage !  courage !  " 

He  wore  the  telegram  inside  his  shirt  for  three  days, 
till  it  got  rather  too  dilapidated.  Then  he  concen- 
trated on  his  work.  Yes !  he  would  have  courage.  He 
would  build  up  again.  Diane  trusted  him.  In  any 
case,  they  could  sell  the  furniture  and  go  and  live  at 
the  "  Moulin  d'Or."  He  wrote  her  long  letters  full 
of  his  schemes.  On  October  the  twelfth  the  work  was 
completed,  and  he  went  down  and  spent  two  days  and 
nights  with  Monsieur  Couturier.  Diane  was  to  return 
to  Paris  on  the  fifteenth.  Monsieur  Couturier  was  full 
of  sympathy  and  courage.  They  talked  far  into  the 
night  of  how  they  would  manage.  With  the  increase 
of  business  assured,  the  inn  would  no  doubt  support 
the  three  of  them.  There  were  great  possibilities,  and 
Paul  was  young  and  energetic.  Nothing  mattered  so 
long  as  his  Diane  believed  in  him. 

The  night  before  he  returned  to  Paris  he  went  for  a 
walk  in  the  woods  by  himself.  He  visualized  the  days 
to  come,  the  walks  with  Diane,  the  tender  moments 
when  they  held  each  other's  hands;  he  could  see  their 
children  toddling  hand  in  hand  through  the  woods, 
picking  flowers.  In  an  ecstasy  he  rushed  to  a  thick 
bush,  and  picked  a  bunch  of  red  berries.     He  would 


26  THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL 

take  them  to  Diane.  They  would  be  the  symbols  of 
their  new  life.  Wild  flowers  from  their  home,  not 
exotic  town-bred  things.  It  was  all  going  to  be  joy 
.  .  .  joy  .  .  .  joy! 

He  ran  back  to  the  inn,  and  spent  a  sleepless  night, 
dreaming  of  Diane  and  the  days  and  nights  to  come. 

In  the  morning  came  a  letter  from  Messrs.  Manson 
et  Cie.  His  dealings  with  the  money-lenders  had  been 
disclosed.     His  sei'vices  were  no  longer  desirable. 

Well,  there  it  was!  It  would  take  more  than  that 
to  crush  him  in  his  ecstatic  mood.  He  would  start 
again.  He  would  begin  by  helping  Monsieur  Couturier 
to  run  the  inn. 

He  returned  to  Paris  late  in  the  evening.  He  would 
go  to  Diane's  flat  after  she  had  returned  from  the 
theater.  She  would  be  a  little  sleepy,  and  comfortable, 
and  comforting.  She  would  wear  one  of  those  loose, 
clinging,  silky  things,  and  she  would  take  him  in  her 
arms,  and  he  would  let  down  her  beautiful  dark  blue- 
black  hair,  and  then  he  would  make  her  a  coronet  of 
the  red  berries.     He  would  make  her  his  queen.  .  .  . 

He  was  too  agitated  to  dine  that  evening.  He  walked 
the  streets  of  Paris,  clasping  the  red  berries  wrapped 
in  tissue  paper.     He  kept  thinking: 

"  Now  she  is  resting  between  the  acts.  Now  she  is 
dancing  a  pas  seul  in  the  second  act.  Now  she  is  giv- 
ing her  imitation  of  Yvette  Guilbert.  Now  she  is  tak- 
ing a  call.  Now  the  manager  speaks  to  her,  congrat- 
ulating her  —  curse  him !  Now  she  awaits  her  cue  to 
go  on  again." 


THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL  27 

He  was  infinitely  patient.  He  restrained  his  wild 
impetus  to  rush  to  the  theater.  lie  hung  about  the 
streets.  He  meant  to  stage-manage  his  effect  with  dis- 
cretion. He  waited  some  time  after  the  theater  was 
closed.  Then,  very  slowly,  he  walked  in  the  direction 
of  her  flat.  As  he  mounted  the  stairs,  he  began  to  real- 
ize that  he  was  very  exhausted.  He  wished  that  he 
had  not  foregone  his  dinner.  However,  after  the  first 
rapturous  meeting  with  Diane,  he  would  take  a  glass 
of  wine.  Very  quietly  he  slipped  the  key  in  the  lock, 
and  let  himself  in.  (He  had  always  had  a  key  to 
Diane's  flat,  which  was  in  effect  his  flat.)  Directly  he 
had  passed  the  door  he  heard  loud  sounds  of  laughter. 
He  swore  inwardly.  How  aggravating !  Diane  had 
brought  home  some  of  her  friends !  There  were  evi- 
dently a  good  many  of  them,  from  the  noise  and 
ribaldry.  In  the  passage  were  several  bottles  and 
glasses. 

He  crept  along  silently  to  the  portiere  concealing  the 
salon.  He  could  hear  Diane's  voice.  She  was  speak- 
ing, and  after  each  sentence  the  company  screamed 
with  laughter.  Ah !  she  was  entertaining  them  with 
one  of  her  famous  imitations.  He  stood  there  and 
listened.  He  made  a  tiny  crack  in  the  curtain  and 
peeped  through.  Diane  was  doing  a  funny  little  strut, 
and  speaking  in  a  peculiar  way.  He  listened  and 
watched  for  three  or  four  minutes  before  he  realized 
the  truth  of  what  he  saw  and  heard.  And  when  he  did 
realize  it,  he  had  to  exert  his  utmost  will-power  to 
prevent  himself  from  fainting. 


28  THE  GOLDEK  WIKDMILL 

The  person  that  Diane  was  imitating  was  —  himself! 

The  realization  seemed  to  be  bludgeoned  into  him, 
assisted  by  a  round  of  ironic  cheers.  People  were  call- 
ing out: 

"  Bravd!  hrava!  Diane!  " 

He  heard  Babette  say: 

"  Where  is  the  little  end-of-a-man  ?  " 

And  Diane's  voice  reply: 

"  Oh,  he  is  coming  back  soon,  I  believe.  I  forget 
when." 

A  man's  voice  —  he  believed  it  was  the  Marquis  de 
Lavemal's  —  exclaimed : 

"  And  when  is  our  Diane  going  to  marry  it  ?  " 

Diane,  very  emphatically: 

"  Do  not  distress  yourself,  my  dear ;  he's  lost  all  his 
money." 

A  roar  of  laughter  drowned  conversation,  and  Paul 
groped  his  way  along  the  passage,  still  clutching  the  red 
berries.  He  reached  the  door.  Then  he  reconsidered 
the  matter.  He  crept  back  to  her  bedroom.  He 
placed  the  berries  under  the  coverlet,  and  taking  a  sheet 
of  paper,  he  wrote  one  word  on  it :  "  Good-by." 

He  placed  this  on  the  berries,  and  then  stole  out 
into  the  night. 

Paul  was  then  twenty-two,  and  his  life  was  finished. 
He  was  a  crushed  and  broken  man.  He  wandered  the 
streets  of  Paris  all  night.  He  spent  hours  grimly 
watching  the  encircling  waters  of  the  Seine,  the  friend 
and  comforter  of  so  many  broken  hearts.  At  dawn 
he  returned  to  his  own  apartment.     He  slept  for  sev- 


THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL  29 

eral  hours,  and  then  woke  up  in  a  fever.     He  was  very 
ill  for  some  weeks. 

But.  one  must  not  despair  forever.  At  the  end  of 
that  time,  ho  pulled  himself  together,  and  went  out 
and  sought  employment.  He  eventually  got  a  situation 
as  a  jimior  clerk  in  a  wholesale  store,  and  he  went 
back  to  live  at  the  old  pension  near  the  Luxembourg, 
and  he  resumed  his  friendship  with  Lucile.  And  in 
two  years'  time  he  married  Lucile.  And  then  his  life 
began.  His  life  began.  His  life  began.  And  lo  !  here 
was  Lucile  walking  slowly  up  the  hill,  arm-in-arm  with 
her  daughter  Louise.     Yes,  his  life  began.  .  .  . 

"Ah!  there  you  are!  Wliat  did  I  say?  "  exclaimed 
Louise.     "  He's  been  asleep !  " 

"  And  we've  had  such  an  interesting  time,"  added 
Madame  Roget,  panting  with  exertion.  "  We've  been 
to  the  inn." 

"  And  there's  such  a  pretty  girl  there,"  continued  the 
daughter.     "  You'd  fall  in  love  with  her,  papa." 

"  Is  she  very  dark  ?  "  asked  Monsieur  Roget. 

"  Yes,  she  has  blue-black  hair  and  beautiful  dark 
eyes." 

"Good  God!" 

"  I  knew  he  would  be  interested.  She  gave  us  some 
milk,  and  she  has  been  telling  us  her  story.  She's 
quite  young,  and  she  owns  the  inn,  although  it's  very 
hard  work  to  run  it,  she  says.  She  only  has  one 
woman  and  a  potman.  Her  mother  was  a  famous 
actress,  who  made  a  lot  of  money  and  bought  the  inn 


30  THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL 

and  improved  it.  She  died  when  Mademoiselle  was 
fifteen." 

"  Who  was  her  father  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  rather  gather  that  her  father  was 
a  bad  lot.     He  died,  too." 

"How  old  is  she?" 

"  Not  much  more  than  twenty." 

"Then  her  mother  must  have  been  thirty-nine  when 
she  died." 

"  What  makes  you  say  so  ?  " 

"  Of  course  she  must  have  been.  What  happened 
to  the  old  man  ?  " 

"  Wliat  old  man  ?  " 

"  Her  grandfather." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about,  papa  ?  I  don't  be- 
lieve you're  quite  awake  yet." 

"  She  must  have  had  a  grandfather.  Everybody  has 
a  grandfather." 

"  Well,  of  course.     But  — " 

"  Then  he  must  be  either  dead  or  alive." 

"  How  tiresome  you  are !  We  must  be  going.  The 
others  are  waiting  for  us  lower  down  the  hill." 

Monsieur  Roget  struggled  to  his  feet,  and  shook  the 
little  dead  fronds  of  fern  from  his  clothes,  and  his 
wife  dusted  him  down  behind. 

"  We  shall  be  going  back  past  the  inn,"  she  said. 

"  The  inn !  Why  can't  we  go  the  other  way  ?  The 
way  we  came  ?  " 

"  Don't  be  so  absurd.  What  does  it  matter  ?  The 
others  are  awaiting  us." 


THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL  31 

They  went  slowly  down  the  hill,  and  came  in  sight 
of  the' "Moulin  d'Or." 

"  Isn't  it  disgusting,  "  remarked  Louise,  "  how  these 
speculative  builders  are  always  spoiling  the  old  inns  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  it's  spoilt,"  answered  her  father  petu- 
lantly. 

"  You  are  ridiculous,  papa !  Any  one  can  see  the 
inn  isn't  half  as  nice  as  it  was," 

As  they  approached  the  forecourt  of  the  inn,  a  girl 
came  out  carrying  a  pail.  She  had  dark  eyes,  blue- 
black  hair,  and  a  swinging  carriage.  Yes,  yes,  there 
was  no  doubt  about  it.  She  was  the  spit  and  image 
of  her  mother. 

As  she  approached  she  smiled  pleasantly,  and  said : 

"  Good  evening,  mesdames;  a  pleasant  journey. 
Good  evening,  monsieur." 

The  ladies  returned  a  friendly  greeting,  and  Mon- 
sieur Roget  suddenly  turned  to  the  girl  and  said: 

"  Is  your  grandfather  alive  or  dead  ?  " 

She  continued  smiling,  and  replied : 

"  I  do  not  remember  my  grandfather,  monsieur." 

No,  perhaps  not ;  it  was  thirty-seven  years  ago,  and 
old  Couturier  was  an  old  man  then.     Perhaps  not. 

"  Papa,  can't  you  see  she's  going  to  the  well  to  fetch 
water  ?     T\Tiy  don't  you  offer  to  help  her  ?  " 

"  Eh  ?  No,  I'm  not  going.  Let  her  fetch  it  her- 
self!" 

"Papa!" 

They  walked  on  in  silence  till  well  out  of  hearing, 
when  Louise  exclaimed : 


32  THE  GOLDEN  WINDMILL 


i( 


Really,  papa,  I  can't  understand  you.  So  ungal- 
lant!  It's  not  like  you.  You  ouglit  to  have  offered 
to  fetch  the  water  for  her,  even  if  she  refused." 

"  Eh  ?  Oh,  no !  I  wasn't  going.  Very  dangerous. 
You  might  fall  down  and  sprain  your  ankle.  Oh,  no ! 
Or  she  might  fall  down,  or  something.  It's  very  slip- 
pery up  there  by  the  well.  You're  not  going  to  get  me 
to  do  it.     Let  her  fetch  her  own  water.     Oh,  no !  no,  no, 


no,  no !  " 


"  Louise  dear,"  remarked  Madame  Roget.  "  Let  us 
hurry.  Your  father  is  most  queer.  I  always  warn 
him,  but  it  is  no  good.  If  he  sleeps  in  the  afternoon 
he  always  gets  an  indisposition." 


A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION 


A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION 

TO  look  at  old  Sam  Gates  you  would  never  sus- 
pect him  of  having  nei-ves.  His  sixty-nine 
years  of  close  application  to  the  needs  of  the 
soil  had  given  him  a  certain  earthy  stolidity.  To  ob- 
serve him  hoeing,  or  thinning  out  a  broad  field  of  tur- 
nips, hardly  attracted  one's  attention.  He  seemed  so 
much  part  and  parcel  of  the  whole  scheme.  He 
blended  into  the  soil  like  a  glorified  swede.  Neverthe- 
less, the  half-dozen  people  who  claimed  his  acquaintance 
knew  him  to  be  a  man  who  suffered  from  little  moods 
of  irritability. 

And  on  this  glorious  morning  a  little  incident  an- 
noyed him  unreasonably.  It  concerned  his  niece  Ag- 
gie. She  was  a  plump  girl  with  clear  blue  eyes  and  a 
face  as  round  and  inexpressive  as  the  dumplings  for 
which  the  county  was  famous.  She  came  slowly  across 
the  long  sweep  of  the  downland  and  putting  down  the 
bundle  wrapped  up  in  a  red  handkerchief  which  con- 
tained his  breakfast  and  dinner,  she  said: 

"  Well,  uncle,  is  there  any  noos  ?  " 

Now  this  may  not  appear  to  the  casual  reader  to  be  a 
remark  likely  to  cause  irritation,  but  it  affected  old 
Sam  Gates  as  a  very  silly  and  unnecessary  question. 
It  was  moreover  the  constant  repetition  of  it  which  was 

35 


36  A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION 

beginning  to  anger  him.  He  met  his  niece  twice  a  day. 
In  the  morning  she  brought  his  bundle  of  food  at  seven, 
and  when  he  passed  his  sister's  cottage  on  the  way  home 
to  tea  at  five  she  was  invariably  hanging  about  the  gate. 
And  on  each  occasion  she  always  said,  in  exactly  the 
same  voice: 

"  Well,  uncle,  is  there  any  noos  ?  " 

"  Noos  "  !  What  "  noos  "  should  there  be  ?  For 
sixty-nine  years  he  had  never  lived  further  than  five 
miles  from  Halvesham.  For  nearly  sixty  of  those 
years  he  had  bent  his  back  above  the  soil.  There  were 
indeed  historic  occasions:  once,  for  instance,  when  he 
had  married  Annie  Hachet.  And  there  was  the  birth 
of  his  daughter.  There  was  also  a  famous  occasion 
when  he  had  visited  London.  Once  he  had  been  to  a 
flower-show  at  Market  Roughborough.  He  either  went 
or  didn't  go  to  church  on  Sundays.  He  had  had  many 
interesting  chats  with  Mr.  James  at  "  The  Cowman," 
and  three  years  ago  had  sold  a  pig  to  Mrs.  Waig.  But 
he  couldn't  always  have  interesting  "  noos  "  of  this  sort 
up  his  sleeve.  Didn't  the  silly  gaffer  know  that  for 
the  last  three  weeks  he  had  been  thinning  out  turnips 
for  Mr.  Dodge  on  this  very  same  field  ?  What  "  noos  " 
could  there  be? 

He  blinked  at  his  niece,  and  didn't  answer.  She 
undid  the  parcel,  and  said: 

"  Mrs.  Goping's  fowl  got  out  again  last  night." 

He  replied,  "  Ah !  "  in  a  non-committal  manner,  and 
began  to  munch  his  bread  and  bacon.  His  niece  picked 
up  the  handkerchief  and  humming  to  herself,  walked 


A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION  37 

back  across  the  field.  It  was  a  glorious  morning,  and  a 
white  sea-mist  added  to  the  promise  of  a  hot  day.  He 
sat  there  munching,  thinking  of  nothing  in  particular, 
but  gradually  subsiding  into  a  mood  of  placid  content. 
He  noticed  the  back  of  Aggie  disappear  in  the  distance. 
It  was  a  mile  to  the  cottage,  and  a  mile  and  a  half  to 
Halvesham.  Silly  things,  girls!  They  were  all  alike. 
One  had  to  make  allowances.  He  dismissed  her  from 
his  thoughts  and  took  a  long  swig  of  tea  out  of  a  bottle. 
Insects  buzzed  lazily.  He  tapped  his  pocket  to  assure 
himself  that  his  pouch  of  shag  was  there,  and  then  he 
continued  munching.  When  he  had  finished,  he 
lighted  his  pipe  and  stretched  himself  comfortably. 
He  looked  along  the  line  of  turnips  he  had  thinned, 
and  then  across  the  adjoining  field  of  swedes.  Silver 
streaks  appeared  on  the  sea  below  the  mist.  In  some 
dim  way  he  felt  happy  in  his  solitude  amidst  this 
sweeping  immensity  of  earth  and  sea  and  sky. 

And  then  something  else  came  to  irritate  him.  It 
was  one  of  "  these  dratted  airyplanes."  "  Airy- 
planes  "  were  his  pet  aversion.  He  could  find  nothing 
to  be  said  in  their  favor.  Il^asty,  noisy,  vile-smelling 
things  that  seared  the  heavens,  and  make  the  earth  dan- 
gerous. And  every  day  there  seemed  to  be  more  and 
more  of  them.  Of  course  "  this  old  war  "  was  respon- 
sible for  a  lot  of  them,  he  knew.  The  war  was  "  a 
plaguey  noosance."  They  were  short-handed  on  the 
farm.  Beer  and  tobacco  were  dear,  and  Mrs.  Stevens' 
nephew  had  been  and  got  wounded  in  the  foot. 

He  turned  his  attention  once  more  to  the  turnips. 


38  A  SOUECE  OF  IRRITATIOE" 

But  an  "  airyplane  "  has  an  annoying  genius  for  grip- 
ping one's  attention.  When  it  appears  on  the  scene, 
however  much  we  dislike  it,  it  has  a  way  of  taking 
stage-center;  we  cannot  help  constantly  looking  at  it. 
And  so  it  was  with  old  Sam  Gates.  He  spat  on  his 
hands,  and  blinked  up  at  the  sky.  And  suddenly  the 
aeroplane  behaved  in  a  very  extraordinary  manner. 
It  was  well  over  the  sea  when  it  seemed  to  lurch  in  a 
drunken  manner,  and  skimmed  the  water.  Then  it 
shot  up  at  a  dangerous  angle  and  zigzagged.  It  started 
to  go  farther  out,  and  then  turned  and  made  for  the 
land.  The  engines  were  making  a  curious  grating 
noise.  It  rose  once  more,  and  then  suddenly  dived 
downwards  and  came  plump  down  right  in  the  middle 
of  Mr.  Dodge's  field  of  swedes ! 

Finally,  as  if  not  content  with  this  desecration,  it 
ran  along  the  ground,  ripping  and  tearing  up  twenty- 
five  yards  of  good  swedes,  and  then  came  to  a  stop. 
Old  Sam  Gates  was  in  a  terrible  state.  The  aeroplane 
was  more  than  a  hundred  yards  away,  but  he  waved  his 
arms,  and  called  out: 

"  Hi !  you  there,  you  mustn't  land  in  they  swedes ! 
They're  Mister  Dodge's." 

The  instant  the  aeroplane  stopped  a  man  leapt  out, 
and  gazed  quickly  round.  He  glanced  at  Sam  Gates, 
and  seemed  uncertain  whether  to  address  him  or 
whether  to  concentrate  his  attention  on  the  flying-ma- 
chine. The  latter  arrangement  appeared  to  be  his  ul- 
timate decision.  He  dived  under  the  engine,  and  be- 
came frantically  busy.     Sam  had  never  seen  any  one 


A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION^  39 

work  with  such  furious  energy.  But  all  the  same,  it 
was  not  to  be  tolerated.  It  was  disgraceful.  Sam 
shouted  out  across  the  field,  almost  hurrying  in  his  in- 
dignation. When  he  approached  within  earshot  of  the 
aviator,  he  cried  out  again: 

"  Hi !  you  mustn't  rest  your  old  airj'plane  here. 
You've  kicked  up  all  Mr.  Dodge's  swedes.  A  nice 
thing  you've  done !  " 

He  was  within  five  yards  when  suddenly  the  aviator 
turned  and  covered  him  with  a  revolver!  And,  speak- 
ing in  a  sharp,  staccato  voice,  he  said : 

"  Old  grandfather,  you  must  sit  down.  I  am  very 
occupied.  If  you  interfere  or  attempt  to  go  away,  I 
shoot  you.     So !  " 

Sam  gazed  at  the  horrid  glittering  little  barrel,  and 
gasped.  Well,  he  never!  To  be  threatened  with  mur- 
der when  you're  doing  your  duty  in  your  employer's 
private  property !  But,  still,  perhaps  the  man  was 
mad.  A  man  must  be  more  or  less  mad  to  go  up  in  one 
of  those  crazy  things.  And  life  was  very  sweet  on 
that  summer  morning,  in  spite  of  sixty-nine  years.  He 
sat  down  among  the  swedes. 

The  aviator  was  so  busy  with  his  cranks  and  machin- 
ery that  he  hardly  deigned  to  pay  him  any  attention, 
except  to  keep  the  revolver  handy.  He  worked  fever- 
ishlv,  and  Sam  sat  watching  him.  At  the  end  of  ten 
minutes  he  seemed  to  have  solved  his  troubles  with  the 
machine,  but  he  still  seemed  very  scared.  He  kept  on 
glancing  round  and  out  to  sea.  When  his  repairs  were 
completed,   he   straightened   his   back   and   wiped   the 


40  A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATIOIT 

perspiration  from  his  brow.  He  was  apparently  on 
the  point  of  springing  back  into  the  machine  and  going 
off,  when  a  sudden  mood  of  facetiousness,  caused  by- 
relief  from  the  strain  he  had  endured,  came  to  him. 
He  turned  to  old  Sam,  and  smiled;  at  the  same  time 
remarking : 

"Well,  old  grandfather,  and  now  we  shall  be  all 
right,  isn't  it?" 

He  came  close  up  to  Sam,  and  then  suddenly  started 
back. 

"  Gott !  "  he  cried.     "  Paul  Jouperts !  " 
Sam  gazed  at  him,   bewildered,    and   the   madman 
started  talking  to  him  in  some  foreign  tongue.     Sam 
shook  his  head. 

"  You  no  right,"  he  remarked,  "  to  come  bargin' 
through  they  swedes  of  Mr.  Dodge's." 

And  then  the  aviator  behaved  in  a  most  peculiar  man- 
ner. He  came  up  and  examined  his  face  very  closely, 
and  gave  a  gentle  tug  at  his  beard  and  hair,  as  if  to 
see  whether  it  were  real  or  false. 

"  What  is  your  name,  old  man  ?  "  he  said. 
"  Sam  Gates." 

The  aviator  muttered  some  words  that  sounded  some- 
thing like  "  mare  vudish !  "  and  then  turned  to  his  ma- 
chine. He  appeared  to  be  dazed  and  in  a  great  state  of 
doubt.  He  fumbled  with  some  cranks,  but  kept  glanc- 
ing at  old  Sam.  At  last  he  got  into  the  car  and  started 
the  engine.  Then  he  stopped,  and  sat  there  deep  in 
thought.  At  last  he  suddenly  sprang  out  again,  and, 
approaching  Sam,  he  said  very  deliberately : 


A  SOUKCE  OF  lERITATION  41 

"  Old  grandfather,  I  shall  require  you  to  accompany 


me." 


Sam  gasped. 

"Eh?"  he  said.  "What  he  talkhi'  about?  'com- 
pany ?  I  got  these  here  lines  o'  tarnips  —  I  be  already 
behoind  — " 

The  disgusting  little  revolver  once  more  flashed  be- 
fore his  eyes. 

"  There  must  be  no  discussion,"  came  the  voice. 
"It  is  necessary  that  you  mount  the  seat  of  the  car 
without  delay.  Otherwise  I  shoot  you  like  the  dog 
you  are.     So !  " 

Old  Sam  w^as  hale  and  hearty.     He  had  no  desire  to 
die    so    ignominiously.     The    pleasant    smell    of    the 
downland  was  in  his  nostrils.     Ilis  foot  was  on  his  na 
tive  heath.     He  mounted  the  seat  of  the  car,  content- 
ing himself  with  a  mutter: 

"  Well,  that  be  a  noice  thing,  I  must  say !  Flyin' 
about  the  country  with  all  they  tarnips  on'y  half 
thinned  — " 

He  found  himself  strapped  in.  The  aviator  was  in 
a  fever  of  anxiety  to  get  away.  The  engines  made  a 
ghastly  splutter  and  noise.  The  thing  started  running 
along  the  ground.  Suddenly  it  shot  upwards,  giving 
the  swedes  a  last  contemptuous  kick.  At  twenty  min- 
utes to  eight  that  morning  old  Sam  found  himself  be- 
ing borne  right  up  above  his  fields  and  out  to  sea !  His 
breath  came  quickly.     He  was  a  little  frightened. 

"  God  forgive  me !  "  he  murmured. 

The  thing  was  so  fantastic  and  sudden,  his  mind 


42  A  SOURCE  OF  lERITATION 

could  not  grasp  it.  He  only  felt  in  some  vague  way 
that  he  was  going  to  die,  and  he  struggled  to  attune  his 
mind  to  the  change.  He  offered  up  a  mild  prayer  to 
God,  Who,  he  felt,  must  be  very  near,  somewhere  up 
in  these  clouds.  Automatically  he  thought  of  the  vicar 
at  Halvesham,  and  a  certain  sense  of  comfort  came  to 
him  at  the  reflection  that  on  the  previous  day  he  had 
taken  a  "  cooking  of  runner  beans  "  to  God's  represent- 
ative in  that  village.  He  felt  calmer  after  that,  but 
the  horrid  machine  seemed  to  go  higher  and  higher. 
He  could  not  turn  in  his  seat  and  he  could  see  nothing 
but  sea  and  sky.  Of  course  the  man  was  mad,  mad 
as  a  March  hare.  Of  what  earthly  use  could  he  be 
to  any  one?  Besides,  he  had  talked  pure  gibberish, 
and  called  him  Paul  Something,  when  he  had  already 
told  him  that  his  name  was  Sam.  The  thing  would  fall 
down  into  the  sea  soon,  and  they  would  both  be  drowned. 
Well,  well !  He  had  reached  the  three-score  years  and 
ten. 

He  was  protected  by  a  screen,  but  it  seemed  very 
cold.  What  on  earth  would  Mr.  Dodge  say?  There 
was  no  one  left  to  work  the  land  but  a  fool  of  a  boy 
named  Billy  Whitehead  at  Deric's  Cross.  On,  on,  on 
they  went  at  a  furious  pace.  His  thoughts  danced  dis- 
connectedly from  incidents  of  his  youth,  conversations 
with  the  vicar,  hearty  meals  in  the  open,  a  frock  his 
sister  wore  on  the  day  of  the  postman's  wedding,  the 
drone  of  a  psalm,  the  illness  of  some  ewes  belonging 
to  Mr.  Dodge.  Everything  seemed  to  be  moving  very 
rapidly,    upsetting  his   sense  of   time.     He   felt   out- 


A  SOUKCE  OF  lERITATION  43 

raged  and  yet  at  moments  there  was  something  entranc- 
ing in  the  wild  experience.  He  seemed  to  be  living  at 
an  incredible  pace.  Perhaps  he  was  really  dead,  and 
on  his  way  to  the  Kingdom  of  God  ?  Perhaps  this  was 
the  way  they  took  people  ? 

After  some  indefinite  period  he  suddenly  caught  sight 
of  a  long  strip  of  land.  Was  this  a  foreign  country? 
or  were  they  returning?  He  had  by  this  time  lost  all 
feeling  of  fear.  He  became  interested,  and  almost  dis- 
appointed. The  "  airyplane  "  was  not  such  a  fool  as 
it  looked.  It  was  very  wonderful  to  be  right  up  in  the 
sky  like  this.  His  dreams  were  suddenly  disturbed 
by  a  fearful  noise.  He  thought  the  machine  was  blown 
to  pieces.  It  dived  and  ducked  through  the  air,  and 
things  were  bursting  all  round  it  and  making  an  a^vful 
din;  and  then  it  went  up  higher  and  higher.  After  a 
while  these  noises  ceased,  and  he  felt  the  machine  glid- 
ing downwards.  They  were  really  right  above  solid 
land,  trees,  and  fields,  and  streams,  and  white  villages. 
Down,  down,  down  they  glided.  This  was  a  foreign 
country.  There  were  straight  avenues  of  poplars  and 
canals.  This  was  not  Halvesham.  He  felt  the  thing 
glide  gently  and  bump  into  a  field.  Some  men  ran 
forward  and  approached  them,  and  the  mad  aviator 
called  out  to  them.  They  were  mostly  fat  men  in  gray 
uniforms,  and  they  all  spoke  this  foreign  gibberish. 
Some  one  came  and  unstrapped  him.  He  was  very 
stiff,  and  could  hardly  move.  An  exceptionally  gross- 
looking  man  punched  him  in  the  ribs,  and  roared  with 
laughter.     They  all  stood  round  and  laughed  at  him, 


44  A  SOURCE  OF  lERITATIOE" 

while  the  mad  aviator  talked  to  them  and  kept  pointing 
at  him.     Then  he  said : 

"  Old  grandfather,  jou  must  come  with  me." 
He  was  led  to  a  zinc-roofed  building,  and  shut  in  a 
little  room.  There  were  guards  outside  with  fixed  bay- 
onets. After  a  while  the  mad  aviator  appeared  again, 
accompanied  by  two  soldiers.  He  beckoned  him  to  fol- 
low. They  marched  through  a  quadrangle  and  entered 
another  building.  They  went  straight  into  an  office 
where  a  very  important-looking  man,  covered  with 
medals,  sat  in  an  easy-chair.  There  was  a  lot  of 
saluting  and  clicking  of  heels. 

The  aviator  pointed  at  Sam  and  said  something,  and 
the  man  with  the  medals  started  at  sight  of  him,  and 
then  came  up  and  spoke  to  him  in  English. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  Where  do  you  come  from  ? 
Your  age  ?  The  name  and  birthplace  of  your  parents  ?  " 
He  seemed  intensely  interested,  and  also  pulled  his 
hair  and  beard  to  see  if  they  came  off.  So  well  and 
naturally  did  he  and  the  aviator  speak  English  that  after 
a  voluble  cross-examination  they  drew  apart,  and  con- 
tinued the  conversation  in  that  language.  And  the 
extraordinary  conversation  was  of  this  nature: 

"  It  is  a  most  remarkable  resemblance,"  said  the  man 
with  medals.  "  Unghublich  !  V>\\t  what  do  you  want 
me  to  do  with  him,  Hau^semann  ?  " 

"  The  idea  came  to  me  suddenly,  excellency,"  replied 
the  aviator,  "  and  you  may  consider  it  worthless.  It  is 
just  this.  The  resemblance  is  so  amazing.  Paul 
Jouperts  has  given  us  more  valuable  information  than 


A  SOUKCE  OF  lERITATION  45 

any  one  at  present  in  our  service.  And  the  English 
know  that.  There  is  an  award  of  twenty-five  thousand 
francs  on  liis  head.  Twice  they  have  captured  him, 
and  each  time  he  escaped.  All  the  company  com- 
manders and  their  staff  have  his  photograph.  He  is  a 
serious  thorn  in  their  flesh." 

"  Well  ?  "  replied  the  man  with  the  medals. 

The  aviator  whispered  confidently: 

"  Suppose,  your  excellency,  that  they  found  the  dead 
body  of  Paul  Jouperts  ?  " 

"  Well  ?  "  replied  the  big  man. 

"  My  suggestion  is  this.  To-morrow,  as  you  know, 
the  English  are  attacking  Hill  701,  which  we  have  for 
tactical  reasons  decided  to  evacuate.  If  after  the  at- 
tack they  find  the  dead  body  of  Paul  Jouperts  in,  say, 
the  second  lines,  they  will  take  no  further  trouble  in 
the  matter.  You  kriow  their  lack  of  thoroughness. 
Pardon  me,  I  was  two  years  at  Oxford  University. 
And  consequently  Paul  Jouperts  will  be  able  to  — 
prosecute  his  labors  undisturbed." 

The  man  with  the  medals  twirled  his  mustache  and 
looked  thoughtfully  at  his  colleague. 

"  Where  is  Paul  at  the  moment  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  is  acting  as  a  gardener  at  the  Convent  of  St. 
Eloise  at  Mailleton-en-haut,  which,  as  you  know,  is 
one  hundred  meters  from  the  headquarters  of  the  British 
central  army  staff." 

The  man  with  the  medals  took  two  or  three  rapid 
turns  up  and  down  the  room.     Then  he  said : 

"  Your  plan  is  excellent,  Hausemann.    The  only  point 


46  A  SOURCE  OF  lERITATION" 

of  difficulty  is  that  the  attack  started  this  morning." 

"  This  morning  ?  "  exclaimed  the  other. 

"  Yes.  The  English  attacked  unexpectedly  at  dawn. 
We  have  already  evacuated  the  first  line.  We  shall 
evacuate  the  second  line  at  eleven-fifty.  It  is  now 
ten-fifteen.     There  may  be  just  time." 

He  looked  suddenly  at  old  Sam  in  the  way  that 
a  butcher  might  look  at  a  prize  heifer  at  an  agricultural 
show,  and  remarked  casually : 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  remarkable  resemblance.  It  seems  a 
pity  not  to  ...  do  something  with  it." 

Then,  speaking  in  German,  he  added: 

"  It  is  worth  trying,  and  if  it  succeeds,  the  higher 
authorities  shall  hear  of  your  lucky  accident  and  in- 
spiration, Herr  Hausemann.  Instruct  Over-lieutenant 
Schutz  to  send  the  old  fool  by  two  orderlies  to  the  east 
extremity  of  trench  38.  Keep  him  there  till  the  order 
of  evacuation  is  given.  Then  shoot  him,  but  don't  dis- 
figure him,  and  lay  him  out  face  upwards." 

The  aviator  saluted  and  withdrew,  accompanied  by 
his  victim.  Old  Sam  had  not  understood  the  latter  part 
of  the  conversation,  and  he  did  not  catch  quite  all  that 
was  said  in  English,  but  he  felt  that  somehow  things 
were  not  becoming  too  promising,  and  it  was  time  to 
assert  himself.     So  he  remarked  when  they  got  outside : 

"  ISTow,  look'ee  here,  mister,  when  be  I  goin'  back  to 
my  tamips  ?  " 

And  the  aviator  replied  with  a  pleasant  smile: 

"Do  not  be  disturbed,  old  grandfather;  you  shall 
.  .  .  get  back  to  the  soil  quite  soon." 


A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION  47 

In  a  few  moments  he  found  himself  in  a  large  gi-aj 
car,  accompanied  by  four  soldiers.  The  aviator  left 
him.  The  country  was  barren  and  horrible,  full  of 
great  pits  and  rents,  and  he  could  hear  the  roar  of 
artillery  and  the  shriek  of  shells.  Overhead,  aeroplanes 
were  buzzing  angrily.  He  seemed  to  be  suddenly  trans- 
ported from  the  Kingdom  of  God  to  the  Pit  of  Dark- 
ness. He  wondered  whether  the  vicar  had  enjoyed  the 
runner-beans.  He  could  not  imagine  runner-beans 
growing  here,  runner-beans,  ay!  or  anything  else.  If 
this  w^as  a  foreign  country,  give  him  dear  old  England. 

Gr-r-r-r  —  Bang !  Something  exploded  just  at  the 
rear  of  the  car.  The  soldiers  ducked,  and  one  of  them 
pushed  him  in  the  stomach  and  swore. 

"  An  ugly-looking  lout,"  he  thought.  "  If  I  w^as 
twenty  years  younger  I'd  give  him  a  punch  in  the  eye 
that  'ud  make  him  sit  up." 

The  car  came  to  a  halt  by  a  broken  wall.  The  party 
hurried  out  and  dived  behind  a  mound.  He  was  pulled 
down  a  kind  of  shaft  and  found  himself  in  a  room  buried 
right  underground,  where  three  officers  were  drinking 
and  smoking.  The  soldiers  saluted  and  handed  a  type- 
written dispatch.  The  officers  looked  at  him  drunkenly, 
and  one  came  up  and  pulled  his  beard  and  spat  in  his 
face,  and  called  him  "  an  old  English  swine."  He  then 
shouted  out  some  instructions  to  the  soldiers,  and  they 
led  him  out  into  the  narrow  trench.  One  walked  be- 
hind him  and  occasionally  prodded  him  with  the  butt- 
end  of  a  gim.  The  trenches  were  half-full  of  water, 
and   reeked  of  gases,   powder,   and   decaying  matter. 


48  A  SOUECE  OF  IREITATIOX 

Shells  were  constantly  bursting  overhead,  and  in  places 
the  trenches  had  crumbled  and  were  nearly  blocked 
up.  They  stumbled  on,  sometimes  falling,  sometimes 
dodging  moving  masses,  and  occasionally  crawling  over 
the  dead  bodies  of  men.  At  last  they  reached  a  de- 
serted-looking trench,  and  one  of  the  soldiers  pushed  him 
into  the  corner  of  it  and  growled  something,  and 
then  disappeared  round  the  angle.  Old  Sam  was  ex- 
hausted. He  lay  panting  against  the  mud  wall, 
expecting  every  minute  to  be  blown  to  pieces  by  one 
of  those  infernal  things  that  seemed  to  be  getting  more 
and  more  insistent.  The  din  went  on  for  nearly  twenty 
minutes,  and  he  was  alone  in  the  trench.  He  fancied 
he  heard  a  whistle  amidst  the  din.  Suddenly  one  of 
the  soldiers  who  had  accompanied  him  came  stealthily 
round  the  corner.  And  there  was  a  look  in  his  eye 
old  Sam  did  not  like.  When  he  was  within  five  yards 
the  soldier  raised  his  rifle  and  pointed  it  at  Sam's 
body.  Some  instinct  impelled  the  old  man  at  that  in- 
stant to  throw  himself  forward  on  his  face.  As  he 
did  so,  he  was  conscious  of  a  terrible  explosion,  and  he 
had  just  time  to  observe  the  soldier  falling  in  a  heap 
near  him,  when  he  lost  consciousness. 

His  consciousness  appeared  to  return  to  him  with  a 
snap.  He  was  lying  on  a  plank  in  a  building,  and  he 
heard  some  one  say: 

"  I  believe  the  old  boy's  English." 

He  looked  round.  There  were  a  lot  of  men  lying 
there,  and  others  in  khaki  and  white  overalls  were  busy 


A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION  49 

amongst  them.  He  sat  up  and  rubbed  his  head,  and 
said: 

"  Hi,  mister,  where  be  I  now  ?  " 

Some  one  laughed,  and  a  young  man  came  up  and 
said: 

"  Well,  old  thing,  you  were  very  nearly  in  hell. 
Who  the  devil  are  you  ?  " 

Some  one  else  came  up,  and  the  two  of  them  were 
discussing  him.     One  of  them  said : 

"  He's  quite  all  right.  He  was  only  knocked  out. 
Better  take  him  to  the  colonel.     He  may  be  a  spy." 

The  other  came  up,  and  touched  his  shoulder,  and 
remarked : 

"  Can  you  walk,  uncle  ?  " 

He  replied :     "  Ay,  I  can  walk  all  right." 

"  That's  an  old  sport !  " 

The  young  man  took  his  arm  and  helped  him  out 
of  the  room,  into  a  courtyard.  They  entered  another 
room,  where  an  elderlv,  kind-faced  officer  was  seated  at 
a  desk.     The  officer  looked  up,  and  exclaimed: 

"  Good  God !  Bradshaw,  do  you  know  who  you've 
got  there  ?  " 

The  younger  one  said,  "  No.     Wlio,  sir  ?  " 

"By  God!  It's  Paul  Jouperts!"  exclaimed  the 
colonel. 

"  Paul  Jouperts !     Great  Scott !  " 

The  old  officer  addressed  himself  to  Sam.     He  said: 

"  Well,  we've  got  you  once  more,  Paul.  We  shall 
have  to  be  a  little  more  careful  this  time." 


50  A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATIOi^ 

The  young  officer  said : 

"  Shall  I  detail  a  squad,  sir  ?  " 

"We  can't  shoot  him  without  a  court-martial,"  re- 
plied the  kind-faced  senior. 

Then  Sam  interpolated : 

"  Look'ee  here,  sir.  I'm  fair  sick  of  all  this.  My 
name  bean't  Paul.  My  name's  Sam.  I  was  a-thinnin' 
a  line  of  tarnips  —  " 

Both  officers  burst  out  laughing,  and  the  younger  one 
said: 

"  Good !  damn  good !  Isn't  it  amazing,  sir,  the  way 
they  not  only  leam  the  language,  but  even  take  the 
trouble  to  leam  a  dialect  ?  " 

The  older  man  busied  himself  with  some  papers. 

"  Well,  Sam,"  he  remarked,  "  you  shall  be  given  a 
chance  to  prove  your  identity.  Our  methods  are  less 
drastic  than  those  of  your  Boche  masters.  What  part 
of  England  are  you  supposed  to  come  from  ?  Let's  see 
how  much  you  can  bluff  us  with  your  topographical 
knowledge." 

"  Oi  was  a-thinnin'  a  loine  o'  tarnips  this  morning  at 
'alf-past  seven  on  Mr.  Dodge's  farm  at  Halvesham,  when 
one  o'  these  'ere  airyplanes  come  roight  down  among 
the  swedes.  I  tells  'ee  to  get  clear  o'  that,  when  the 
feller  what  gets  owt  o'  the  car,  'e  drabs  a  revowler  and 
'e  says,  '  You  must  'company  I  —  '  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  interrupted  the  senior  officer ;  "  that's  all 
very  good.  "Now  tell  me  —  Where  is  Halvesham? 
What  is  the  name  of  the  local  vicar?  I'm  sure  you'd 
know  that." 


A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION  51 

Old  Sam  rubbed  his  chin. 

"  I  sits  under  the  Reverend  David  Pryce,  mister,  and 
a  good  God-fearin'  man  he  be.  I  took  him  a  cookin'  o' 
runner-beans  on'y  yesterday.  I  works  for  Mr.  Dodge 
what  owns  Greenway  Manor  and  'as  a  stud-farm  at 
Newmarket  they  say." 

"  Charles  Dodge  ?  "  asked  the  younger  officers. 

"  Ay,  Charlie  Dodge.  You  write  and  ask  'un  if  he 
knows  old  Sam  Gates." 

The  two  officers  looked  at  each  other,  and  the  older 
one  looked  at  Sam  more  closely. 

"  It's  very  extraordinary,"  he  remarked. 

"  Everybody  knows  Charlie  Dodge,"  added  the 
younger  officer. 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  a  wave  of  genius  swept 
over  old  Sam.  He  put  his  hand  to  his  head,  and  sud- 
denly jerked  out : 

"  What's  more,  I  can  tell  'ee  where  this  yere  Paul  is. 
He's  actin'  a  gardener  in  a  convent  at  —  " 

He  puckered  up  his  brow  and  fumbled  with  his  hat, 
and  then  got  out: 

"  Mighteno." 

The  older  officer  gasped. 

"  Mailleton-en-haut !  Good  God !  What  makes  you 
say  that,   old  man  ?  " 

Sam  tried  to  give  an  account  of  his  experience,  and 
the  things  he  had  heard  said  by  the  German  officers. 
But  he  was  getting  tired,  and  he  broke  off  in  the  middle 
to  say: 

"  Ye  haven't  a  bite  o'  somethin'  to  eat,  I  suppose, 


52  A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION" 

mister,  and  a  glass  o'  beer  ?     I  usually  'as  my  dinner  at 
twelve  o'clock." 

Both  the  officers  laughed,  and  the  older  said : 
"  Get  him  some  food,  Bradshaw,  and  a  bottle  of  beer 
from  the  mess.     We'll  keep  this  old  man  here.     He 
interests  me." 

While  the  younger  man  was  doing  this,  the  chief 
pressed  a  button  and  summoned  another  junior  officer. 

"  Gateshead,"  he  remarked,  "  ring  up  G.  H.  Q.  and 
instruct  them  to  arrest  the  gardener  in  that  convent  at 
the  top  of  the  hill,  and  then  to  report." 

The  officer  saluted  and  went  out,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
a  tray  of  hot  food  and  a  large  bottle  of  beer  was  brought 
to  the  old  man,  and  he  was  left  alone  in  the  corner  of 
the  room  to  negotiate  this  welcome  compensation.  And 
in  the  execution  he  did  himself  and  his  country  credit. 
In  the  meanwhile  the  officers  were  very  busy.  People 
were  coming  and  going  and  examining  maps  and  tele- 
phone-bells were  ringing  furiously.  They  did  not  dis- 
turb old  Sam's  gastronomic  operations.  He  cleaned 
up  the  mess  tins  and  finished  the  last  drop  of  beer. 
The  senior  officer  found  time  to  offer  him  a  cigarette, 
but  he  replied : 

"  Thank  'ee  kindly,  but  I'd  rather  smoke  my  pipe." 

The  colonel  smiled,  and  said: 

"  Oh,  all  right.     Smoke  away." 

He  lighted  up,  and  the  fumes  of  the  shag  permeated 
the  room.  Some  one  opened  another  window,  and  the 
young  officer  who  had  addressed  him  at  first  suddenly 
looked  at  him  and  exclaimed: 


A  SOURCE  OF  IREITATIOiN"  53 

"  Innocent,  by  God !  You  couldn't  get  shag  like  that 
anywhere  but  in  Norfolk." 

It  must  have  been  over  an  hour  later  when  another 
officer  entered,  and  saluted. 

"  Message  from  G.  H.  Q.,  sir,"  he  said. 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  They  have  arrested  the  gardener  at  the  convent 
of  St.  Eloise,  and  they  have  every  reason  to  believe  that 
he  is  the  notorious  Paul  Jouperts." 

The  colonel  stood  up,  and  his  eyes  beamed.  He  came 
over  to  old  Sam  and  shook  his  hand. 

"  Mr.  Gates,"  he  said,  "  you  are  an  old  brick..  You 
will  probably  hear  more  of  this.  You  have  probably 
been  the  means  of  delivering  something  very  useful 
into  our  hands.  Your  own  honor  is  vindicated.  A 
loving  government  will  probably  award  you  five  shil- 
lings or  a  Victoria  Cross,  or  something  of  that  sort. 
In  the  meantime,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

Old  Sam  scratched  his  chin. 

"  Oi  want  to  get  back  'ome,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  even  that  might  be  arranged." 

"  Oi  want  to  get  back  'ome  in  toime  for  tea." 

"  Wliat  time  do  you  have  tea  ?  " 

"  Foive  o'clock  or  thereabouts." 

"  I  see." 

A  kindly  smile  came  into  the  eyes  of  the  colonel. 
He  turned  to  another  officer  standing  by  the  table,  and 

said :  ' 

"  Raikes,  is  any  one  going  across  this  afteraoon  with 
dispatches  ?  " 


54  A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATIOiT 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  young  officer.  "  Commander 
Jennings  is  leaving  at  three  o'clock." 

"  You  might  ask  him  to  come  and  see  me." 

Within  ten  minutes  a  young  man  in  a  flight-com- 
mander's uniform  entered. 

"  Ah,  Jennings,"  said  the  colonel,  "  here  is  a  little 
affair  which  concerns  the  honor  of  the  British  army. 
My  friend  here,  Sam  Gates,  has  come  over  from  Halve- 
sham  in  N'orfolk  in  order  to  give  us  valuable  informa- 
tion. I  have  promised  him  that  he  shall  get  home  to 
tea  at  five  o'clock.     Can  you  take  a  passenger  ? " 

The  young  man  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 

"  Lord !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  What  an  old  sport !  Yes, 
I  expect  I  could  just  manage  it.  Where  is  the  God- 
forsaken place  ?  " 

A  large  ordnance-map  of  ITorfolk  (which  had  been 
captured  from  a  German  officer)  was  produced,  and  the 
young  man  studied  it  closely. 

At  three  o'clock  precisely  old  Sam,  finding  himself 
something  of  a  hero  and  quite  glad  to  escape  from  the 
embarrassment  which  this  position  entailed,  once  more 
sped  skywards  in  an  "  airyplane." 

At  twenty  minutes  to  five  he  landed  once  more 
amongst  Mr.  Dodge's  swedes.  The  breezy  young  air- 
man shook  hands  with  him  and  departed  inland.  Old 
Sam  sat  down  and  surveyed  the  field. 

"  A  noice  thing,  I  must  say,"  he  muttered  to  himself, 
as  he  looked  along  the  lines  of  unthinned  turnips.  He 
still  had  twenty  minutes,  and  so  he  went  slowly  along 
and  completed  a  line  which  he  had  commenced  in  the 


A  SOURCE  OF  IRRITATION^  55 

morning.  He  then  deliberately  packed  up  his  dinner- 
things  and  his  tools,  and  started  out  for  home. 

As  he  came  round  the  corner  of  Still  way's  Meadow, 
and  the  cottage  came  in  view,  his  niece  stepped  out  of 
the  copse  with  a  basket  on  her  arm. 

"  Well,  uncle,"  she  said,  "  is  there  any  noos  ?  " 

It  was  then  that  old  Sam  became  really  irritated. 

"  Noos !  "  he  said.  "  Noos  !  drat  the  girl !  What 
noos  should  there  be?  Sixty-nine  year  I  live  in  these 
here  parts,  hoein'  and  weedin'  and  thinnin',  and  mindin' 
Charlie  Dodge's  sheep.  Am  I  one  o'  these  here  story- 
book folk  havin'  noos  'appen  to  me  all  the  time  ?  Ain't 
it  enough,  ye  silly  dab-faced  zany,  to  earn  enough  to 
buy  a  bite  o'  some' at  to  eat,  and  a  glass  o'  beer,  and  a 
place  to  rest  a's  head  o'night,  without  always  wantin' 
noos,  noos,  noos !  I  tell  'ee,  it's  this  that  leads  'ee 
to  'alf  the  troubles  in  the  world.     Devil  take  the  noos !  " 

And  turning  his  back  on  her,  he  went  fuming  up  the 
hill. 


THE  BROTHERS 


THE  BROTHERS 

IN  the  twilight  of  his  mind  there  stirred  the  dim 
realization  of  pain.  He  could  not  account  for 
this  nor  for  his  lack  of  desire  to  thrust  the  pain 
back.  It  was  moreover  mellowed  by  the  alluring  em- 
braces of  an  enveloping  darkness,  a  darkness  which  he 
idly  desired  to  pierce,  and  yet  which  soothed  him  with 
its  caliginous  touch.  Some  subconscious  voice,  too, 
kept  repeating  that  it  was  ridiculous,  that  he  really  had 
control,  that  the  darkness  was  due  to  the  fact  that  it 
was  night,  and  that  he  was  in  his  own  bed.  In  the 
room  across  the  passage  his  mother  was  sleeping  peace- 
fully. And  yet  the  pain,  which  he  could  not  account 
for,  seemed  to  press  him  down  and  to  rack  his  lower 
limbs.  There  was  a  soothing  interval  of  utter  dark- 
ness and  forgetfulness,  and  then  the  little  waves  of 
febrile  consciousness  began  to  lap  the  shores  of  distant 
dreams,  and  visions  of  half-forgotten  episodes  became 
clear  and  pregnant. 

He  remembered  standing  by  the  French  window  in 
their  own  dining-room,  his  mother's  dining-room,  rap- 
ping his  knuckles  gently  on  the  panes.  Beneath  the 
window  was  the  circular  bed  of  hollyhocks  just  begin- 
ning to  flower,  and  below  the  terrace  the  great  avenue 

of  elms  nodding  lazily  in  the  sun.     He  could  hear  the 

69 


60  THE  BROTHEES 

coffee-urn  on  its  brass  tripod  humming  comfortably 
behind  him  while  he  waited  for  his  mother  to  come 
down  to  breakfast.  He  was  alone,  and  the  newspaper 
in  his  hand  was  shaking.  War!  He  could  not  grasp 
the  significance  of  the  mad  news  that  lay  trembling  on 
the  sheets.  His  mother  entered  the  room,  and  as  he 
hurried  across  to  kiss  her  he  noted  the  pallor  of  her 
cheeks. 

They  sat  down,  and  she  poured  him  out  his  coffee 
as  she  had  done  ever  since  he  could  remember.  Then, 
fixing  her  dark  eyes  on  his  and  toying  restlessly  with 
the  beads  upon  her  breast,  she  said : 

"  It's  true,  then,  Robin  ?  " 

He  nodded,  and  his  eyes  wandered  to  the  disfiguring 
newspaper.  He  felt  as  though  he  were  in  some  way 
responsible  for  the  intrusion  of  the  world  calamity  into 
the  sanctity  of  his  mother's  life ;  he  muttered : 

"  It's  a  dreadful  business,  mother." 

His  gaze  wandered  again  out  of  the  window  between 
the  row  of  elms.  Geddes,  the  steward,  was  walking 
briskly,  followed  by  two  collies.  Beyond  the  slope  was 
a  hay-cart  lumbering  slowly  in  the  direction  of  the  farm. 
"  Parsons  is  rather  late  with  the  clover,"  he  thought. 
He  felt  a  desire  to  look  at  things  in  little  bits ;  the  large 
things  seemed  overpowering,  insupportable.  Above  all, 
his  mother  must  not  suffer.  It  was  dreadful  that  any 
one  should  suffer,  but  most  of  all  his  mother.  He  must 
devote  himself  to  protecting  her  against  the  waves  of 
foreboding  that  were  already  evident  on  her  face.  But 
what  could  he  say  ?     He  knew  what  was  uppermost  in 


THE  BROTHERS  61 

lier  mind  —  Giles !  He  had  no  illusions.  He  knew 
that  his  mother  adored  his  elder  brother  more  passion- 
ately than  she  did  himself.  It  was  only  natural.  He 
too  adored  Giles.  Everybody  did.  Giles  was  his  hero, 
his  god.  Ever  since  he  could  remember,  Giles  had 
epitomized  to  him  everything  splendid,  brave,  and  chiv- 
alrous. He  was  so  glorious  to  look  at,  so  strong,  so 
manly.  The  vision  of  that  morning  merged  into  other 
visions  of  the  sim-lit  hours  with  Giles  —  his  pride  when 
quite  a  little  boy  if  Giles  would  play  with  him;  his 
pride  when  he  saw  Giles  in  flannels,  going  in  to  bat 
at  cricket ;  the  terror  in  his  heart  when  one  day  he  saw 
Giles  thrown  from  a  horse,  and  then  the  passionate 
tears  of  love  and  thankfulness  when  he  saw  him  rise 
and  run  laughing  after  the  beast.  He  remembered  that 
when  Giles  went  away  to  school  his  mother  found  him 
ci*ying,  and  told  him  he  must  not  be  sentimental.  But 
he  could  not  help  it.  He  used  to  visualize  the  daily 
life  of  Giles  and  vTrite  to  him  long  letters  which  his 
brother  seldom  answered.  Of  course  he  did  not  expect 
Giles  to  answer;  he  would  have  no  time.  He  was  one 
of  the  most  popular  boys  at  school  and  a  champion  at 
every  sport. 

Then  the  vision  of  that  morning  when  the  newspaper 
brought  its  disturbing  news  vanished  with  the  memory 
of  his  mother  standing  by  his  side,  her  arm  round  his 
waist,  as  they  gazed  together  across  a  field  of  nodding 
com.  .  .  . 

Troubled  visions,  then,  of  Giles  returning  post-haste 
from  Oxford,  of  himself  in  the  village  talking  to  every 


62  THE  BROTHEES 

one  he  met  about  "  the  dreadful  business,"  speaking  to 
the  people  on  the  fai-m,  and  to  old  Joe  Walters,  the 
wheelwright,  whose  voice  he  could  remember  saying : 
"  Av,  tha'  woan't  tak'  thee,  Master  Robin." 
He  remembered  talking  to  Mr.  Meads  at  the  general 
shop,  and  to  the  Reverend  Quirk,  whose  precious  voice 
he  could  almost  hear  declaiming: 

"  I  presume  your  brother  will  apply  for  a  commis- 
sion." 

He  had  wandered  then  up  on  to  the  downs  and  tried  to 
think  about  "the  dreadful  business"  in  a  detached 
way,  but  it  made  him  tremble.  He  listened  to  the  bees 
droning  on  the  heather,  and  saw  the  smoke  from  the 
hamlet  over  by  Wodehurst  trailing  peacefully  to  the 
sky.     "  The  dreadful  business  "  seemed  incredible. 

It  was  some  days  later  that  he  met  his  friend  Jerry 
Lawson  wandering  up  there,  with  a  terrier  at  his  heels. 
Lawson  was  a  sculptor,  a  queer  chap,  whom  most  people 
thought  a  fanatic.     Jerry  blazed  down  on  him : 

"  This  is  hell,  Robin.  Hell  let  loose.  It  could  have 
been  avoided.  It's  a  trade  war.  At  the  back  of  it  all 
is  business,  business,  business.  And  millions  of  boys 
will  be  sacrificed  for  commercial  purposes.  Our  policy 
is  just  as  much  at  fault  as  —  theirs.  Look  what  we 
did  at  — " 

For  an  hour  he  listened  to  the  diatribe  of  Lawson, 
tremulously  silent.  He  had  nothing  to  reply.  He  de- 
tested politics  and  the  subtleties  of  diplomacy.  He  had 
left  school  early  owing  to  an  illness  which  had  affected 
his  heart.     He  had  spent  his  life  upon  these  downs 


THE  BROTHERS  63 

and  among  his  books.  He  could  not  adjust  the  gentle 
impulses  of  his  being  to  the  violent  demands  of  that 
foreboding  hour.  When  Lawson  had  departed,  he  had 
sat  there  a  long  time.     Was  Lawson  right  ? 

He  wandered  home,  determining  that  he  would  read 
more  history,  more  political  economy;  he  would  get  to 
the  root  of  "  this  dreadful  business." 

He  wanted  to  talk  to  Giles,  to  find  out  what  he  really 
thought,  but  the  radiant  god  seemed  unapproachable; 
or  rode  roughshod  over  the  metaphysical  doubts  of  his 
brother,  and  laughed.  Giles  had  no  misgivings.  His 
conscience  was  dynamically  secure.  Besides,  there  was 
"  the  mater." 

"  When  I  go,  Rob,  you  must  do  all  you  can  to  buck 
the  mater  up."  He  had  looked  so  splendid  when  he  said 
that,  with  his  keen,  strong  face,  alert  and  vibrant,  Robin 
had  not  had  it  in  his  heart  to  answer.  And  then  had 
come  lonely  days,  reading  news  books  and  occasionally 
talking  with  Lawson.  Wlien  Giles  went  off  to  his  train- 
ing he  spent  more  time  with  his  mother,  but  they  did  not 
discuss  the  dreadful  thing  which  had  come  into  their 
lives.  His  mother  became  restlessly  busy,  making 
strange  garments,  knitting,  attending  violently  to  the 
demands  of  the  household.  Sometimes  in  the  evening 
he  would  read  to  her,  and  they  would  sit  trying  to  hide 
from  each  other  the  sound  of  the  rain  pattering  on  the 
leaves  outside.  He  had  not  dared  talk  to  her  of  the 
misgivings  in  his  heart  or  of  his  arguments  with 
Lawson.  .  .  . 

And  then  a  vision  came  of  a  certain  day  in  October. 


64r  THE  BROTHERS 

The  wind  was  blowing  the  rain  in  fitful  gusts  from  the 
sea.  He  was  in  a  sullen,  perverse  mood.  Watching 
his  mother's  face  that  morning,  a  sudden  fact  concerning 
her  had  come  home  to  him.  It  had  aged,  aged  during 
those  three  months,  and  the  gray  hair  on  that  dis- 
tinguished head  had  turned  almost  white.  He  felt 
within  him  a  surging  conflict  of  opposing  forces.  The 
hour  of  climacteric  had  arrived.  He  must  see  it  once 
and  for  all  clearly  and  unalterably.  He  had  put  on  his 
mackintosh  then  and  gone  out  into  the  rain.  He 
walked  up  to  the  long  wall  by  Gray's  farm,  where  on  a 
fine  day  he  could  see  the  sea;  but  not  to-day,  it  was 
too  wet  and  misty ;  but  he  could  be  conscious  of  it,  and 
feel  its  breath  beating  on  his  temples. 

He  stood  there,  then,  for  several  hours,  under  the 
protection  of  the  wall,  listening  to  the  wind  and  to  the 
gulls  who  went  shrieking  before  it.  He  could  not  re- 
member where  he  had  wandered  to  after  that,  except 
that  for  some  time  he  was  leaning  on  a  rock,  watching 
the  waves  crashing  over  the  point  at  Youlton  Bay.  And 
then  in  the  evening  he  had  written  to  Lawson. 

"  I  want  to  see  this  thing  in  its  biggest,  broadest 
sense,  dear  Jerry." 

He  knew  he  had  commenced  the  letter  in  this  way, 
for  it  was  a  phrase  he  had  repeated  to  himself  at  inter- 
vals. 

"  Like  you,  I  hate  war  and  the  thought  of  war.  But, 
good  heaven!  need  I  say  that?  Every  one  must  hate 
war,  I  suppose.  I  agree  with  you  that  human  life  is 
sacred.  .  .  .  But  would  it  be  sacred  if  it  stood  still  ?  — 


THE  BROTHEES  65 

if  it  were  stagnant?  —  if  it  were  just  a  mass  affair? 
It  is  only  sacred  because  it  is  an  expression  of  spiritual 
evolution.     It  must  change,  go  on,  lead  somewhere.  .  .  . 

"  Don't  you  think  that  we  on  this  island  have  as  great 
a  right  to  fight  for  what  we  represent  as  any  other 
nation  ?  With  all  our  faults  and  poses  and  hypocrisies, 
haven't  we  subscribed  something  to  the  commonwealth 
of  humanity  ?  —  something  of  honor,  and  justice,  and 
equity?  I  don't  believe  you  will  deny  all  this.  But 
even  if  you  did,  and  even  if  I  agreed  with  you,  I  still 
should  not  be  convinced  that  it  was  not  right  to  fight. 
As  I  walked  up  by  the  chalk-pit  near  Gueldstone  Head, 
and  saw  the  stone-gray  cottages  at  Lulton  nestling  in 
the  hollow  of  the  downs,  and  smelt  the  dear  salt  damp- 
ness of  it  all,  and  felt  the  lovely  tenderness  of  the  eve- 
ning light,  I  thought  of  Giles  and  what  he  represents, 
and  of  my  mother,  and  what  she  represents,  and  of  all 
the  people  I  know  and  love  with  all  their  faults,  and  I 
made  up  my  mind  that  I  would  fight  for  it  in  any  case, 
in  the  same  way  that  I  would  fight  for  a  woman  I  loved, 
even  if  I  knew  she  were  a  harlot.  .  .  ." 

Lying  there  in  his  bed,  these  ebullient  thoughts  re- 
acted on  him.  Drowsiness  stole  over  his  limbs,  and  he 
felt  his  heart  vibrating  oddly.  There  seemed  to  be  a 
sound  of  drums,  beating  a  tattoo,  of  a  train  rumbling 
along  an  embankment.  And  in  fancy  he  was  on  his 
way  to  London  again,  with  the  memory  of  his  mother's 
eyes  as  she  had  said : 

"  Come  back  safely,  Robin  boy." 

The  memory  of  that  day  was  terrifying  indeed.     He 


66  THE  BROTHERS 

was  wandering  about  a  vast  building  near  Whitehall, 
tremulously  asking  questions,  wretchedly  conscious  that 
people  looked  at  him  and  laughed.  And  then  that  long 
queue  of  waiting  men  !  Some  were  so  dirty,  so  obscene, 
and  he  felt  that  most  of  them  were  sniggering  at  him. 
A  sergeant  spoke  sharply,  and  he  shuddered  and  spilt 
some  ink  on  one  of  the  many  forms  he  had  to  fill  up. 
Every  one  seemed  rough  and  violent.  After  many  hours 
of  waiting  he  was  shown  into  another  room  and  told  to 
strip.  He  sat  on  a  fonn  with  a  row  of  other  men,  feel- 
ing incredibly  naked  and  very  much  ashamed.  The 
window  was  open  and  his  teeth  chattered  with  the 
cold  and  the  nervous  tension  of  the  desperate  experience. 
A  doctor  spoke  kindly  to  him,  and  an  old  major  at  a 
table  asked  him  one  or  two  questions.  He  was  dis- 
missed and  waited  interminably  in  another  room.  At 
last  an  orderly  entered  and  called  his  name  among  some 
others,  and  handed  him  a  card.     He  was  rejected. 

He  returned  to  Wodehurst  that  evening  shivering 
and  in  a  mood  of  melancholy  dejection.  He  was  an 
outcast  among  his  fellows,  a  being  with  a  great  instinct 
towards  expression,  but  without  the  power  to  back  it  up. 
The  whole  thing  appeared  so  utterly  unheroic,  almost 
sordid.  He  wondered  about  Giles.  If  presenting  one- 
self at  a  recruiting  office  was  such  a  terrifying  ordeal, 
what  must  the  actual  life  of  a  soldier  be?  Of  course 
Giles  was  different,  but  —  the  monotony,  the  cheerless- 
ness  of  barrack  life!  And  then  the  worse  things  be- 
yond. 

After  that  he  would  devour  the  papers  and  tramp 


THE  BROTHERS  67 

feverishly  on  the  downs;  he  tried  to  obtain  work  at  a 
munition  factory,  and  was  refused;  made  himself  ill 
sewing  bandages  and  doing  chaotic  odd  jobs.  And  all 
the  time  he  thought  of  Giles,  Giles,  Giles.  Wliat  Giles 
was  doing,  how  Giles  was  looking,  whether  he  was  un- 
happy, and  whether  they  spoke  to  him  brusquely,  like 
the  sergeant  had  to  himself  in  London. 

Then  came  the  vision  of  the  day  when  Giles  came  and 
bade  farewell,  on  his  way  to  France  —  a  terrible  day. 
He  could  not  bring  himself  to  look  into  his  mother's 
eyes.  He  felt  that  if  he  did  so  he  would  be  a  trespasser 
peering  into  the  forbidden  sanctuary  of  a  holy  place. 
He  hovered  around  her  and  murmured  little  banalities 
about  Giles's  kit,  the  train  he  was  to  catch,  the  parcel 
he  was  to  remember  to  pick  up  in  London.  When  it 
came  to  parting  time,  he  left  those  two  alone  and  fled 
out  to  the  trap  that  was  to  take  his  brother  to  the 
station.  He  had  waited  there  till  Giles  came,  rimning 
and  laughing  and  waving  his  hand.  He  drove  with 
him  to  the  station,  and  dared  not  look  back  to  see  his 
mother  standing  by  the  window.  They  were  silent  till 
the  trap  had  passed  a  mile  beyond  the  village;  then 
Giles  had  laughed,  and  talked,  and  rallied  him  on  his 
gloomy  face. 

"  I'll  soon  be  back,  old  man.  Buck  the  mater  up, 
won't  you?  Whoa,  Tommy,  what  are  you  shying  at? 
.  .  .  By  jove !  won't  it  be  grand  on  the  sea  to-night !  " 

Oh,  Giles !  Giles !  was  there  ever  any  one  so  splendid, 
so  radiant,  so  uncrushable  ?  His  heart,  went  out  to  his 
brother  at  that  moment,  and  he  could  not  answer. 


68  THE  BROTHERS 

So  closely  were  his  own  sympathies  interwoven  with 
the  feelings  of  his  brother  that  he  hardly  noticed  the 
moment  of  actual  separation  on  the  platform.  His 
heart  was  with  Giles  all  the  way  up  to  London,  then  in 
the  train  again,  and  upon  the  sea  with  him  that  night. 

In  his  imagination,  quickened  by  a  close  study  of  all 
the  literature  he  could  get  hold  of  on  the  actual  condi- 
tions out  there,  he  followed  his  brother  through  every 
phase  of  his  new  life.  He  was  with  him  at  the  base,  in 
rest  camps,  and  in  dug-outs,  and  more  especially  was 
he  with  him  in  those  zig-zagging  trenches  smelling  of 
dampness  and  decay.  On  dark  nights  he  would  hear 
the  scuttle  of  rats  dashing  through  the  wet  holes.  He 
would  hear  the  shriek  of  shells,  and  the  tearing  and 
ripping  of  the  earth.  He  would  start  up  and  try  to 
make  his  way  through  the  slime  of  a  battered  trench 
which  always  seemed  to  be  crumbling,  crumbling.  In 
his  nostrils  would  hang  the  penetrating  smell  of  gases 
that  had  the  quality  of  imparting  terror.  So  vivid  were 
his  impressions  of  these  things  that  he  could  not  detach 
his  own  suffering  from  that  of  his  brother.  There  were 
times  when  he  became  convinced  that  either  he  or  Giles 
was  a  chimera.  One  of  them  did  not  exist.  .  .  .  He 
seemed  to  stand  for  an  eternity  peering  through  a  slit 
in  a  mud  wall  and  gazing  at  another  mud  wall,  and 
feeling  the  penetrating  ooze  of  dying  vegetation  creep- 
ing into  his  body.  Above  his  head  would  loom  dark 
poles  and  barbarous  entanglements.  It  was  as  though 
everything  had  vanished  from  the  world  but  symbols  of 
fear  and  cruelty,   which   rioted   insanely   against  the 


THE  BROTHERS  G9 

heavens,  as  though  everything  that  man  had  ever  leamt 
had  been  forgotten  and  destroyed ;  and  he  growled  there 
in  the  wet  earth,  flaunting  the  feral  passions  of  his 
remote  ancestry.  And  the  cold!  —  the  cold  was  ter- 
rible. .  .  .  He  remembered  a  strange  thing  happening 
at  that  time.  During  some  vague  respite  from  the  re- 
cun-ing  horror  of  these  imaginings,  he  had,  he  believed, 
been  walking  out  through  the  meadows,  when  a  numb- 
ness seemed  to  creep  over  his  lower  limbs.  He  could 
not  get  back.  He  had  lain  helpless  in  a  field  when 
George  Carter,  one  of  the  farm  hands,  had  found  him 
and  helped  him  home.  He  had  been  very  ill  then, 
and  his  mother  had  sent  for  Doctor  Ewing.  He  could 
not  remember  exactly  what  the  doctor  said  or  what 
treatment  he  prescribed,  or  how  long  he  had  lain  there 
in  a  semi-conscious  state,  but  he  vividly  remembered 
hearing  the  doctor  say  one  day :  "  It's  very  curious, 
madam.  I  was,  as  you  know,  out  at  the  Front  for  some 
time  with  the  Red  Cross,  and  this  boy  has  a  fever  quite 
peculiar  to  the  men  at  the  Eront.  Has  he  been  out 
standing  in  the  wet  mud  ?  "  He  could  not  remember 
what  his  mother  answered.  He  wanted  to  say :  "  JSTo, 
no,  it's  not  I.  It's  Giles,"  but  he  had  not  the  strength, 
and  afterwards  wondered  whether  it  were  an  illusion. 

He  knew  that  many  weeks  went  by,  and  still  they 
would  not  let  him  walk.  That  was  his  greatest  trouble, 
for  walking  helped  him.  When  he  could  walk,  he 
could  sometimes  live  in  a  happier  world  of  make-believe, 
but  in  bed  the  epic  tragedy  unfolded  itself  in  every 
livid  detail,  intensely  real. 


70  THE  BROTHERS 

Long  periods  of  time  went  by,  and  still  he  was  not 
allowed  to  leave  his  room.  His  mother  would  come  and 
sit  with  him  and  read  him  Giles's  letters.  They  were 
wonderful  letters,  full  of  amusing  stories  of  "  rags " 
and  tales  of  splendid  feeds  obtained  under  difficult 
circumstances.  Of  the  conditions  that  existed  so 
vividly  in  Robin's  mind  there  was  not  one  word.  To 
read  Giles's  letters  one  would  imagine  that  he  was 
away  on  a  holiday  with  a  party  of  young  undergradu- 
ates, having  the  time  of  their  lives.  But  the  letters 
had  no  reality  to  him.     He  knew.     He  had  seen  it  all. 

Time  became  an  unrecognizable  factor.  Faces  came 
and  went.  His  mother  was  always  there,  and  there 
appeared  another  kind  face  whom  he  believed  to  be  a 
nurse;  and  sometimes  Jerry  Lawson  would  come  and 
sit  by  the  bed,  and  talk  to  him  about  the  beauties  of  the 
quattrocento  and  other  things  he  had  forgotten,  things 
which  belonged  to  a  dead  world.  .  .  . 

Lying  there  in  bed,  he  could  not  detach  these  impres- 
sions very  clearly,  nor  determine  how  long  ago  they  had 
taken  place.  There  appeared  to  be  an  unaccountable 
shifting  of  the  folds  of  darkness,  a  slipping  away  of 
vital  purposes,  and  a  necessity  for  focusing  upon  some 
immediate  development.  This  necessity  seemed,  some- 
how, emphasized  by  the  overpowering  pain  that  had 
begun  to  rack  his  limbs,  more  especially  his  right  foot. 
He  wanted  to  call  out,  but  some  voice  told  him  that  it 
would  be  useless.  The  night  was  too  impenetrable  and 
heavy,  his  voice  would  only  die  away  against  its  inky 
pall.     There  was  besides  a  certain  soothing  tenderness 


THE  BROTHERS  Tl 

about  it,  as  though  it  were  caressing  him  and  telling 
him  that  he  must  wait  in  patience,  and  all  would  be 
well.  He  knew  now  that  he  was  sleeping  in  the  open, 
and  that  would  account  for  the  chilling  coldness.  At 
the  same  time  it  was  not  exactly  the  open.  There  were 
walls  about  and  jagged  profiles,  but  apparently  no  roof 
or  distances.  The  ground  was  hard  like  concrete.  He 
must  be  infinitely  patient  and  pray  for  the  dawn.  .  .  . 
He  began  to  feel  the  dawn  before  he  saw  it.  It  came 
like  the  caressing  sigh  of  a  woman  as  she  wakes  and 
thinks  of  her  lover  in  some  foreign  clime.  Somewhere 
at  hand  a  bird  was  twittering,  aware  too  of  the  coming 
miracle.  Almost  imperceptibly  things  began  to  form 
themselves.  He  was  certainly  behind  a  wall,  but  there 
was  a  door,  with  the  upper  part  leaning  in.  A  phrase 
occurred  to  his  mind:  "The  white  arm  of  dawn  is 
creeping  over  the  door."  A  lovely  passage!  He  had 
read  it  in  some  Irish  book.  The  angle  at  the  top  of 
the  door  was  like  a  bent  elbow.  It  was  very,  very  like 
the  white  arm  —  of  some  Irish  queen,  perhaps,  or  of  the 
Mother  of  men  —  a  white  arai  creeping  over  the  door, 
and  in  its  whiteness  delicately  touching  the  eyelids  of 
the  sleeping  inmates,  whilst  a  voice  in  a  soft  cadence 
whispered :  "  Awake !  pull  back  the  door,  and  let  me 
show  you  the  silver  splendors  of  the  unborn  day." 

A  heavy  dew  was  falling,  and  the  cold  seemed  bitter, 
whilst  all  around  he  became  aware  of  the  slow  unfolding 
of  desolation;  except  for  the  leaning  door,  nothing 
seemed  to  take  a  recognizable  shape,  everything  was 
jagged  and  violent  in  its  form  and  exuded  the  cloying 


72  THE  BROTHERS 

odors  of  death.  Somewhere  faintly  he  thought  he  heard 
the  sound  of  a  comet,  bizarre  and  fantastic,  and  having 
no  connection  with  the  utter  stillness  of  this  place  of 
sorrow. 

His  eye  searched  the  broken  darkness  in  fugitive  pur- 
suit of  a  solution  of  the  formless  void.  Quite  near  him, 
apparently,  was  an  oblong  board  which  amidst  this 
wilderness  of  destruction  seemed  to  have  escaped  un- 
touched. As  the  dim  violet  light  began  to  reveal  cer- 
tain definite  concrete  things,  he  became  aware  that  on 
the  board  were  some  Roman  letters.  He  looked  at  them 
for  some  time  unseeingly.  The  word  written  there 
stamped  itself  without  meaning  on  his  brain.  The  word 
was :  "  EILLES."  He  repeated  it  to  himself  over  and 
over  again.  The  earth  seemed  to  rock  again  with  a 
sullen,  vibrating  passion,  as  though  irritated  that  the 
work  of  destruction  was  not  entirely  complete.  Things 
already  destroyed  seemed  to  be  subjected  to  further 
transmutation  of  formlessness.  But  still  the  board  re- 
mained intact,  and  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  it.  It  imbued 
him  with  a  strange  sense  of  tranquillity.  Filles!  A 
little  word,  but  it  became  to  him  a  link  to  cosmic 
things.  The  desire  to  reason  passed,  as  the  ability  to 
suffer  passed.  Across  the  mists  of  time  he  seemed  to 
hear  the  laughter  of  children.  He  could  almost  see 
them  pass.  There  were  Jeannette  and  Marie,  with  long 
black  pigtails  and  check  frocks,  and  just  behind  them, 
struggling  with  a  heavy  satchel,  little  fair-haired  Ba- 
bette.  How  they  laughed,  those  children!  and  yet  he 
could  not  determine  whether  their  laughter  came  from 


THE  BKOTHERS  73 

the  years  that  had  passed  or  from  the  years  that  were 
to  come.  But  wherever  tlie  laughter  came  from,  it 
seemed  the  only  thing  the  powers  of  darkness  could  not 
destroy.  He  lay  then  for  a  long  time,  conscious  of  a 
peace  greater  than  any  he  could  have  conceived.  And 
the  white  arm  of  dawn  crept  over  the  door. 

•  ••••• 

The  crowd  who  habitually  came  down  by  the  after- 
noon train  trickled  out  of  the  station  and  vanished. 
The  master  of  Wodehurst  came  limping  through  the 
doorway.  His  face  was  bronzed  and  perhaps  a  little 
thinner,  but  his  eyes  laughed,  and  his  voice  rang  out 
to  the  steward  waiting  in  the  dog-cart: 

"  Hullo !  Sam,  how  are  you  ?  " 

He  was  leaning  on  two  sticks,  and  a  porter  followed 
with  his  trunks. 

"  Can  I  help  you  up,  sir  ?  " 

"  No,  it's  all  right,  old  man ;  I  can  manage." 

He  pulled  himself  up  and  laughed  because  he  hit  his 
knee  upon  the  mudguard. 

"  It's  good  to  be  home,  Sam." 

"  Yes ;  I  expect  your  mother  will  be  glad,  sir,"  an- 
swered Geddes,  touching  up  the  horse.  "  And  so  will 
we  all,  I'm  thinking." 

They  clattered  down  the  road,  and  the  high  spirits 
of  the  wounded  warrior  rose.  He  asked  a  thousand 
questions,  and  insisted  on  taking  the  reins  before  they 
had  gone  far.  It  was  dusk  when  they  began  to  draw 
near  Wodehurst ;  a  sudden  silence  had  fallen  on  Giles. 
The  steward  realized  the  reason.     He  coughed  uncom- 


U  THE  BROTHERS 

fortably.  They  were  passing  within  a  hundred  yards 
of  Wodehiirst  Church.  Suddenly  he  said  in  his  deep 
burr: 

"  We  were  all  very  sorry,  sir,  about  Master  Robin." 

The  eyes  of  the  soldier  softened;  he  murmured: 

"  Poor  old  chap  !  " 

"  I  feel  I  ought  to  tell  you,  sir.  It  was  a  very  queer 
thing.  But  one  day  that  young  Mr.  Lawson  —  you 
know,  the  sculptor  —  about  a  week  after  it  all  hap- 
pened, he  must  have  got  up  at  daybreak,  I  should  say  — 
nobody  saw  him  do  it.  He  must  have  gone  down  there 
to  the  churchyard  with  his  tools,  and  what  do  you  think  ? 
He  carved  something  on  the  stone  —  on  Mr.  Robin's 
stone." 

Giles  said  quickly :  "  Carved  !     What  ?  " 

"  He  carved  just  under  the  name  and  date,  '  He  died 
for  England.'  " 

"  '  He  died  for  England !  '  He  carved  that  on 
Robin's  grave  ?     What  did  he  mean  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir." 

"  Really !     What  a  rum  chap  he  must  be !  " 

"  We  didn't  know  what  to  do  about  it,  sir.  I  saw  it, 
and  I  didn't  like  to  tell  your  mother,  and  nobody 
likes  to  interfere  with  a  tombstone,  it  seems  profane- 
like.     So  there  it  is  to  this  day." 

"  Thank  you,  Sam.     I'll  think  about  it." 

"  Have  you  had  much  pain  with  your  foot,  sir  ?  " 

Giles  laughed,  and  flicked  the  horse. 

"  Oh,  nothing  to  write  home  about,  Sam.  I  had  a 
touch  of  fever,  you  know.     I  didn't  tell  the  mater.     It 


THE  BROTHERS  75 

was  later  on  that  I  got  this  smash  of  my  right  foot. 
It  happened  at  —  I've  forgotten  the  name ;  some 
damned  little  village  on  the  Flemish  border.  I  was 
lucky  in  a  way,  the  shrapnel  missed  me.  It  was  falling 
stonework  that  biffed  up  my  foot.  There  was  a  build- 
ing, a  sort  of  school,  I  should  think.  It  got  blown  to 
smithereens.  It  was  rather  a  nasty  mess-up.  I  was 
there  for  seven  hours  before  they  found  me  —  Hullo ! 
I  see  the  mater  standing  at  the  gate." 

The  horse  nearly  bolted  with  the  violence  of  Giles's 
waving  arms.  .  .  . 

The  dinner  —  all  the  dishes  that  Giles  specially  loved 
—  was  finished.  With  his  arm  round  his  mother's  waist 
and  a  cigar  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  he  led  her 
into  the  warm  comfort  of  the  white-paneled  drawing- 
room. 

"  You  won't  mind  my  smoking  in  here  to-night, 
mater  ?  " 

"  My  dear  boy !  " 

They  sat  in  silence,  watching  the  red  glow  of  the  log 
fire.     Suddenly  Giles  said: 

"  I  say,  mater,  do  you  know  an  awfully  rum  thing 
Geddes  told  me?" 

His  mother  looked  up. 

"  I  think  perhaps  I  know.  Do  you  mean  in  the  — 
cemetery  ?  " 

Giles  nodded,  puffing  at  his  cigar  in  little  nervous 
inhalations. 

"  Yes.  I  knew.  I  saw  it,  of  course.  I've  sat  and 
wondered." 


/re  THE  BEOTHEES 

"  Such  a  mm  thing  to  do !  What  do  you  think  we 
ought  to  do  about  it,  mater  ?  " 

He  saw  his  mother  lean  forward ;  the  waves  of  silver 
hair  seemed  to  enshrine  the  beautiful  lines  of  her  drawn 
face ;  her  voice  came  whispering : 

"  Hadn't  we  better  leave  it,  Giles  ?  .  .  .  Perhaps  he 
really  did  die  for  England  ?  " 

The  young  man  glanced  at  her  quickly.  He  saw  her 
aged  and  broken  by  the  war.  He  thought  of  his 
brother.  .  .  .  Then  he  caught  sight  of  his  own  face  in 
the  mirror,  lean,  youthful,  vigorous.  The  old  tag 
flashed  through  his  mind : 

"  They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

He  thnist  away  that  emotional  expression,  and  in 
the  manner  of  his  kind  stayed  silent,  rigid,  with  his 
back  to  the  fire.     And  suddenly  he  said: 

"  I  say,  mater,  won't  you  play  me  something  ? 
Chopin,  or  one  of  those  Eussian  Johnnies  you  play  so 
rippingly  ?  " 


OLD  IRON  " 


"  OLD  IRON  " 

YOU  know  how  the  story  goes,  of  course.  Hus- 
l)an(i  and  wife  just  about  to  retire  to  bed. 
Wife  yawns,  husband  knocks  out  his  pipe  on 
the  gi-ate  and  remarks: 

"  Well,  better  turn  in,  I  suppose." 

Wife  replies: 

"  Yes  " ;  then  adds  languidly : 

"  I  meant  to  call  round  to  ask  the  Cartwrights  to 
dinner  on  Thursday." 

Husband,  after  prolonged  pause : 

"  I'll  pop  round  and  ask  them  now,  if  you  like.  They 
never  go  to  bed  till  very  late," 

"  I  wish  you  would,  dear." 

Husband  pulls  on  a  cloth  cap  and  goes  out.  Wife 
yaAvns  again,  and  picks  up  The  Ladies'  Boudoir,  and 
idly  examines  charmeuse  gown,  and  notes  the  prices  of 
gloves  at  Foxtrot's  &  Fieldfem's.  Yawns  again  more 
audibly.  Collects  sewing  and  places  it  in  work-basket. 
Takes  the  kitten  out  and  locks  it  up  in  the  scullery. 
Yawns,  and  walks  languidly  upstairs.  Turns  on  the 
light  and  spends  fifteen  minutes  examining  face  at  vari- 
ous angles  in  the  glass.  Begins  to  disrobe.  Thinks 
sleepily :  "  Tom's  a  long  time."  Brushes  out  her  hair 
and  admires  it  considerably.     Conceives  a  new  way  of 

dressing   it   for   future   festivities.     Disrobes   farther. 

79 


80  "  OLD  lEON  " 

Yawns.     Disrobes  completely  and  re-robes  —  dressing- 


gown. 


"  It's  too  bad  being  all  this  time !  " 

Vitality  slightly  stirred  in  the  direction  of  resent- 
ment and  a  kind  of  mild  apprehension.  Lies  on  the 
bed  and  drowsily  reviews  the  experiences  of  the  day. 
Dreams  .  .  .  Suddenly  starts  with  a  consciousness  of 
cold.  Gropes  for  her  wrist-watch.  A  quarter  past 
one!  Jumps  from  the  bed,  feeling  the  cold  hand  of 
fear  on  her  heart.  Runs  downstairs  and  stares  help- 
lessly out  of  the  front  door.  Pauses  to  consider  a  thou- 
sand possible  eventualities.  Returns  to  bedroom  and 
completely  re-robes,  not  forgetting  to  do  her  hair  neatly 
and  powder  her  nose.  Puts  on  cloak  and  goes  out. 
Cartwrights'  house  all  in  darkness.  Bangs  on  the 
front  door  and  rings  bell.  Head  of  old  Mr.  Cartwright 
at  first-floor  window: 

"Who  the  devil's  that?" 

"  It's  me.     Wliere's  Tom  ?  " 

"  Tom !     Haven't  seen  him  for  weeks !  " 

"  Good  God !     Let  me  in." 

Cartwright  family  aroused.  Panic.  Painting  scene 
in  drawing-room.  Brandy,  smelling-salts  and  eau-de- 
cologne.  Young  George  Cartwright  mounts  his  bi- 
cycle—  rides  to  the  police-station;  on  the  way  talks 
to  policeman  on  point  duty.  ISTo,  no  one  heard  anything 
of  a  thin  man  with  a  snuff-colored  mustache.  At  police- 
station,  no  accidents  so  far  reported.  Chief  inspector 
will  make  a  note  and  await  developments.  Night 
passes,  and  the  following  day.     No  news. 


"  OLD  IRON  "  81 

"Weeks,  months,  years  elapse.  Eight  years  slide 
easily  by.  The  wife  sui"vives  her  grief.  She  mar- 
ries the  local  organist,  a  blond  and  commendable  young 
man.  They  continue  to  live  in  the  wife's  house.  Chil- 
dren gather  round  her  knee.  One,  two,  three,  twins, 
an  interval,  six,  seven  handsome  blond  children.  They 
grow  up. 

Twenty-two  years  elapse.  They  are  sitting  at  tea. 
The  father,  the  mother  and  the  oldest  son,  a  handsome 
young  man  in  a  gray  flannel  suit.  He  kisses  his  mother 
and  says : 

"  I  must  go  now,  mother  dear.  I  have  to  take  a 
Bible-class." 

He  goes  out  (presumably  to  the  Bible-class).  The 
mother  smiles  with  pride,  the  father  glows  with  be- 
nignity and  helps  himself  to  another  buttered  muffin. 
Everything  perfect.  Suddenly  the  door  opens,  and 
an  old  man  in  a  long  gray  beard  and  perambulating 
manner  wanders  into  the  room.  He  stares  at  the  wife, 
and  mumbles : 

"  Did  you  say  Thursday  or  Friday  ?  .  .  .  My  mem- 
ory is  not  what  it  was.  .  .  ." 

And  the  wife  stares  at  the  old  man,  and  then  at  the 
blond  organist.  And  the  blond  organist  stares  at  the 
motlier  of  his  beautiful  children,  and  then  at  the  bearded 
interloper.  And  they  all  stare  at  each  other  and  feel 
very  embarrassed. 

The  stoiy  is  familiar  to  you?  Well,  perhaps  so. 
It  is  the  story  of  the  eternal  triangle,  the  most  useful 


82  "OLD  IRON" 

pattern  of  geometrical  forms  in  the  construction  of  a 
romantic  pattern. 

Heigho !  the  trouble  with  human  triangles  is  that  they 
are  never  equilateral.  Two  sides  together  are  invari- 
ably greater  than  the  third  side. 

Jim  Canning  was  the  third  side  of  a  triangle,  and  he 
got  flattened  out.  In  fact,  his  wife  used  to  flatten 
him  out  on  every  possible  occasion.  She  was  bigger 
than  he,  and  she  was  aided  by  the  tertium  quid,  Ted 
WooUams,  who  was  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  pro- 
fessional pugilist.  What  was  Jim  to  do  ?  In  every 
well-conducted  epic  the  hero  performs  physical  feats 
which  leave  you  breathless.  He  is  always  tall  and 
strong,  and  a  bit  too  quick  with  the  rapier  for  any 
villain  who  crosses  his  path.  But  what  about  a  hero 
who  is  small  and  elderly,  of  poor  physique,  short- 
sighted, asthmatical,  with  corns  which  impede  his  gait  ? 
You  may  say  that  he  has  no  place  in  the  heroic  arena. 
He  should  clear  out,  go  and  get  on  with  his  job,  and 
leave  heroism  to  people  who  know  how  to  manage  the 
stuif.  And  yet  there  was  something  heroic  in  the  heart 
of  Jim  Canning:  a  quick  sympathy,  and  an  instinct  for 
self-sacrifice. 

He  used  to  keep  a  second-hand  furniture  shop,  which, 
you  must  understand,  is  a  very  different  thing  from  an 
antique  shop.  Jim's  furniture  had  no  determinate 
character  such  as  that  which  is  associated  with  the  name 
of  Chippendale,  Sheraton  or  Heppelwhite.  It  was  just 
"  furniture."  Well-worn  sofas,  broken  chairs  and  tables, 
mattresses  with  the  stuflfing  exuding  from  holes,  rusty 


"OLD  IRON"  83 

brass  beds  with  the  knobs  missing,  broken  pots  and 
mirrors  and  dumb-bells ;  even  clothes,  and  screws,  false 
teeth  and  bird-cages,  and  ancient  iimbrellas.  But  his 
specialty  was  old  iron.  Trays  and  trays  and  baskets 
filled  with,  scraps  of  old  iron. 

His  establishment  used  to  be  knoAATi  in  Camden  Town 
at  that  time  as  "  The  Muck  Shop."  At  odd  times  of 
the  day  you  might  observe  his  small  pathetic  figure 
trundling  a  barrow  laden  with  the  spoils  of  some  hard- 
pressed  inhabitant.  "What  a  tale  the  little  shop  seemed 
to  tell !  Struggle  and  poverty,  homes  broken  up,  drink, 
ugly  passions,  desperate  sacrifices  —  a  battered  array 
of  the  symbols  of  distress.  And,  somehow,  in  his  per- 
son these  stories  seemed  to  be  embodied.  One  felt  that 
he  was  sorry  for  the  people  whose  property  he  bought. 
He  was  always  knowm  as  a  fair  dealer.  He  paid  a 
fair  price  and  never  took  advantage  of  ignorance. 

His  marriage  was  a  failure  from  the  very  first.  She 
was  a  big,  strapping  woman,  the  daughter  of  a  local 
greengrocer.  Twelve  years  younger  than  Jim,  vain, 
frivolous,  empty-headed  and  quarrelsome.  Her  reasons 
for  marrying  him  were  obscure.  Probably  she  had  ar- 
rived at  the  time  when  she  wanted  to  marry,  and  Jim 
was  regarded  as  a  successful  shop-keeper  who  could 
keep  her  in  luxury.  He  was  blinded  by  her  physical 
attractions,  and  tried  his  utmost  to  believe  that  his  wife 
was  everything  to  be  desired.  Disillusionment  came 
within  the  first  month  of  their  married  life,  at  the  mo- 
ment, indeed,  when  Clara  realized  that  her  husband's 
business  was  not  so  thriving  as  she  had  been  led  to 


84  "  OLD  IRON  " 

believe.  She  immediately  accused  him  of  deceiving 
her.  Then  she  began  to  snlk  and  neglect  him.  She 
despised  his  manner  of  conducting  business  —  his  con- 
scientiousness and  sense  of  fair-dealing;. 

"  If  you'd  put  some  ginger  into  it,"  she  once  re- 
marked, "  and  not  always  be  thinking  about  the  feelings 
of  the  tripe  you  buy  from,  we  might  have  a  house  in  the 
Camden  Road  and  a  couple  of  servants." 

This  had  never  been  Jim's  ambition.  Many  years 
ago  he  had  attended  a  sale  at  Shorwell  Green,  on  the 
borders  of  Sussex,  a  glorious  spot  near  the  downs, 
amidst  lime-trees  and  little  running  streams.  It  had 
been  the  dream  of  his  life  that  one  day  he  would  retire 
there,  with  the  woman  he  loved  —  and  her  children. 
When  he  put  the  matter  to  Clara,  she  laughed  him  to 
scorn. 

"  Not  half !  "  she  said.  "  Catch  me  living  among 
butterflies  and  blinking  cows.  The  Camden  Road  is 
my  game." 

Jim  sighed,  and  went  on  trundling  his  barrow. 
Well,  there  it  was!  If  the  woman  he  had  married 
desired  it,  he  must  do  what  she  wanted.  In  any  case 
it  was  necessary  to  begin  to  save.  But  with  Clara  he 
found  it  exceedingly  difficult  to  begin  to  save.  She 
idled  her  day  away,  bought  trinkets,  neglected  her 
domestic  offices,  went  to  the  pictures,  and  sucked  sweets. 
Any  attempt  to  point  out  to  her  the  folly  of  her  ways 
only  led  to  bitter  recriminations,  tears  and  savage  dis- 
plays of  temper,  even  physical  violence  to  her  husband. 
Then  there  came  a  day  when  Jim  fondly  believed 


"  OLD  IRON  "  85 

that  the  conditions  of  their  married  life  would  be 
ameliorated.  A  child  was  born,  a  girl,  and  they  called 
her  Annie.  Annie  became  the  apple  of  his  eye.  He 
would  hurry  back  from  the  shop  to  attend  at  Annie's 
bath.  He  would  creep  in  at  night  and  kiss  the  warm 
skin  of  her  little  skull.  He  would  think  of  her  as  he 
pottered  around  amidst  his  broken  chairs  and  tables, 
and  utter  little  croons  of  anticipatory  pleasure.  Annie ! 
She  would  grow  up  and  be  the  mainstay  of  his  life.  He 
would  work  and  struggle  for  her.  Her  life  should  be 
a  path  of  roses  and  happiness.  His  wife,  too,  appeared 
to  improve  upon  the  advent  of  Annie.  For  a  time  the 
baby  absorbed  her.  She  displayed  a  kind  of  wild 
animal  joy  in  its  existence.  She  nursed  it  and  fondled 
it,  and  did  not  seem  to  resent  the  curtailment  of  her 
pleasures.  It  was  an  additional  mouth  to  feed ;  never- 
theless their  expenses  did  not  seem  to  greatly  increase, 
owing  probably  to  Clara's  modified  way  of  living. 

Four  years  of  comparative  happiness  followed.  Jim 
began  to  save.  Oh !  very  slowly ;  very,  very  slowly. 
He  still  had  less  than  three  hundred  pounds  put  on  one 
side  for  —  that  vague  future  of  settled  security.  But 
still  it  was  a  solid  beginning.  In  another  ten  or  fifteen 
years  he  would  still  be  —  well,  not  quite  an  old  man ; 
an  active  man,  he  hoped.  If  ho  could  save  only  one 
hundred  pounds  a  year! 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Ted  Woollams  appeared  on 
the  scene.  He  was  the  son  of  a  manager  of  a  Swimming 
Bath.  On  Sundays  he  used  to  box  in  "  Fairyland  " 
for  purses  of  various  amounts  —  he  was  a  redoubtable 


86  "OLD  IRON" 

middle-weight.  During  the  week  he  swaggered  about 
Camden  Town  in  new  check  suits,  his  fingers  glittering 
with  rings.  He  met  Clara  one  evening  at  a  public 
dance.  The  mutual  attraction  appears  to  have  been 
instantaneous.  Thej  danced  together  the  whole  eve- 
ning, and  he  saw  her  home. 

And  then  began  the  squeezing  out  of  the  third  side 
of  the  triangle.  Jim  was  not  strong  enough  for  them. 
At  first  he  professed  to  see  nothing  in  the  friendship. 
He  described  Ted  as  "  a  jolly  young  fellow,  a  great  pal 
of  my  wife's."  And  Ted  treated  him  with  a  certain 
amount  of  respect.  He  called  in  at  odd  times,  stayed 
to  meals,  drank  Jim's  beer,  and  smoked  Jim's  tobacco. 
The  triangle  was  quite  intact.  It  was  Annie  who  caused 
the  first  disruption.  She  disliked  the  prize-fighter,  and 
screamed  at  the  sight  of  him.  This  led  to  reprisals 
when  he  had  gone,  and  Jim's  championship  of  the  child 
did  not  help  to  cement  the  always  doubtful  nature  of  the 
affection  between  husband  and  wife.  There  were  cross 
words  and  tears,  and  once  she  pushed  him  over  a  chair, 
and,  in  the  fall,  cut  his  temple. 

A  few  days  later,  Ted  Woollams  called  in  a  great 
state  of  agitation.  He  wished  to  see  Jim  alone.  It 
appeared  that  a  wonderful  opportunity  had  occuired  to 
him.  It  was  a  complicated  story  about  a  quantity  of 
bonded  brandy  which  he  had  a  chance  of  acquiring  and 
selling  at  an  enormous  profit.  He  wanted  to  bon*ow 
fifty  pounds  till  Saturday  week,  when  he  would  pay 
Jim  back  sixty.  Jim  said  he  would  lend  him  the  fifty, 
but  he  didn't  want  any  interest. 


"OLD  IRON"  87 

When  Saturday  week  came,  Ted  said  the  deal  had 
fallen  through,  but  he  would  let  him  have  the  money 
back  the  following  Saturday.  In  the  meantime  he 
came  to  supper  nearly  every  night.  Sometimes  he  drank 
too  much  beer. 

Then  Clara  began  to  dress  for  the  part.  She  bought 
expensive  frocks,  and  had  the  account  sent  in  to  Jim. 
She  neglected  the  child. 

The  months  drifted  by,  and  Ted  was  always  going  to 
pay,  but  he  became  more  and  more  part  and  parcel 
of  the  household.  Jim's  savings  began  to  dwindle.  He 
protested  to  both  his  wife  and  Ted,  but  they  treated  him 
with  indifference.  The  boxer  began  to  abuse  his  fa- 
miliarity. He  would  frequently  tell  Jim  that  he  was 
not  wanted  in  the  drawing-room  after  supper.  When 
spoken  to  about  the  money  he  laughed  and  said : 

"  Oh,  you've  got  plenty,  old  'un.  Lend  us  another 
fiver."  .-  -M 

On  one  occasion  Jim  was  foolish  enough  to  lend 
him  another  ten  pounds,  under  the  spell  of  some  heart- 
rending story  about  a  poor  woman  in  the  street  where 
W^oollams  lived.  This  lopsided  triangle  held  together 
for  nearly  four  years.  Jim  was  unhappy  and  dis- 
tracted. He  did  not  know  how  to  act.  He  could  not 
leave  his  wife,  for  the  sake  of  the  child.  If  he  turned 
her  out  —  and  he  had  no  legal  power  to  do  so  —  she 
would  probably  take  Annie  with  her.  And  the  child 
was  devoted  to  him.  They  were  great  friends,  and  it 
was  only  this  friendship  which  prevented  him  indulging 
in  some  mad  act.     Several  times  he  ordered  Woollams 


88  "  OLD  IKON  " 

out  of  the  house  and  forbade  him  to  come  again,  but  the 
boxer  laughed  at  him  and  called  him  an  old  fool.  He 
knew  that  his  wife  was  practically  keeping  the  man. 
They  went  to  cinemas  together,  and  often  disappeared 
for  the  whole  day,  but  she  always  returned  at  night, 
although  it  was  sometimes  two  or  three  in  the  morning 
before  she  did  so.  Jim  had  no  proof  of  actual  unfaith- 
fulness. !N"either  could  he  afford  to  hire  detectives, 
a  course  of  action  which  in  any  case  appeared  to  him 
distasteful.  Far  from  saving  a  hundred  pounds  a  year, 
he  was  spending  more  than  his  income.  His  savings 
had  dwindled  to  barely  forty  pounds.  His  business 
was  stagnant,  but  still  he  trundled  his  barrow  hither 
and  thither,  calling  out,  "  Old  iron !  old  iron !  "  and  he 
struggled  to  pay  the  fair  price. 

During  a  great  period  of  his  life  Jim  had  enjoyed 
an  unaccountable  but  staunch  friendship  with  a  gentle- 
man named  Isaac  Rubens.  Isaac  Rubens  was  a  Jew  in 
a  slightly  similar  way  of  business  to  himself,  and  he 
conducted  a  thriving  house  at  the  corner  of  the  Holy 
Angel  Road.  Isaac  was  in  many  respects  a  very  re- 
markable man.  Large,  florid,  and  puffy,  with  keen 
eagle  eyes  and  an  enormous  nose,  he  was  a  man  of 
profound  knowledge  of  the  history  and  value  of  ohjets 
d'art.  He  was  moreover  a  man  of  his  word.  He  was 
never  known  to  give  or  accept  a  written  contract,  and 
never  known  to  break  a  verbal  one.  The  friendship 
between  these  two  was  in  many  respects  singular. 
Isaac  was  a  keen  man  of  business,  and  Jim  was  of  very 
little  use  to  him.     Isaac's  furniture  was  the  real  thing, 


"  OLD  IRON  "  89 

with  names  and  pedigrees.  He  did  not  deal  in  old  iron 
but  in  stones  and  jewels  and  ornaments.  Nevertheless 
he  seemed  to  find  in  Jim's  society  a  certain  pleasure. 
Jim  would  call  on  his  rounds  and,  leaving  his  barrow 
out  in  the  road,  would  spend  half-an-hour  or  so  chatting 
with  the  Jew  across  the  counter. 

Sometimes  after  supper  they  would  call  on  each  other 
and  smoke  a  pipe  and  discuss  the  vagaries  of  their  call- 
ing, or  the  more  abstract  problems  of  life  and  death. 

When  this  trouble  came  upon  Jim  he  immediately 
repaired  to  his  friend's  house  and  told  him  the  whole 
story. 

"  Oh,  dear !  oh,  dear !  This  is  a  bad  business !  a 
bad  business !  "  exclaimed  Isaac,  when  it  was  over. 
His  moist  eyes  glowed  amidst  the  general  humidity  of 
his  face.  "  How  can  I  advise  you  ?  An  erring  wife 
is  the  curse  of  God.  You  cannot  turn  her  away  without 
knowledge.  Thank  God,  my  Lena.  .  .  .  But  there! 
among  my  people  such  lapses  are  rare.  You  have  no 
evidence  of  unfaithfulness  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  You  must  be  gentle  with  her,  gentle  but  firm. 
Point  out  the  error  of  her  ways." 

"  I  am  always  doing  that,  Isaac." 

"  She  may  get  over  it  —  a  passing  infatuation.  Such 
things  happen." 

"  If  it  wasn't  for  the  child !  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  understand.  Oh,  dear !  oh,  dear  !  very 
distressing,  my  friend.  If  I  can  be  of  any  assist- 
ance — " 


90  "  OLD  IRON  " 

He  thrust  out  his  large  hands  helplessly.  It  is  the 
kind  of  trouble  in  which  no  man  can  help  another,  and 
each  knew  it.     Jim  hovered  by  the  door. 

"  It's  nice  to  have  some  one  to  —  talk  to,  anyway," 
he  muttered;  then  he  picked  up  his  cap  and  shuffled 
away,  calling  out: 

"Old  iron!     Old  iron!" 

Annie  was  nine  when  the  climax  came.  An  intelli- 
gent, pretty  child,  with  dark  hair  and  quick,  impulsive 
manners.  Her  passionate  preference  for  her  father  did 
not  tend  to  smooth  the  troubles  of  the  household.  She 
attended  the  grammar-school  and  had  many  girl-friends. 
She  saw  very  little  of  her  mother. 

One  evening  Jim  returned  home  late.  He  had  been 
on  a  visit  to  his  friend,  Isaac.  He  found  Annie  seated 
on  the  bottom  stair,  in  her  nightdress.  Her  face  was 
very  pale  and  set,  her  eyes  bright.  She  had  been  cry- 
ing.    Wlien  she  saw  her  father  she  gasped : 

"Daddy!  ...  Oh,  Daddy!" 

He  seized  her  in  his  arms  and  whispered : 

"  What  is  it,  my  dear  ?  " 

Then  she  cried  quietly  while  he  held  her.  He  did 
not  attempt  to  hurry  her.  At  last  she  got  her  voice  un- 
der control  and  gasped  quietly: 

"  I  had  gone  to  bed.  I  don't  know  why  it  was.  I 
got  restless  in  bed.  I  came  down  again  softly.  I 
peeped  into  the  sitting-room.  .  .  .  Oh,  Daddy !  " 

"  What  ?     What,  my  love  ?  " 

"  That  man.  .  .  .  That  man  and  — " 

"  Your  mother  ?  " 


"  OLD  IRON  "  91 

"  Yes." 
"  He  was  — " 

"  He  was  kissing  her  and  —  Oh  !  " 
Jim  clutched  his  child  and  pressed  her  head  against 
his  breast. 

"  I  went  in,  .  .  .  He  struck  me." 
"  What !  " 

"He  struck  me  because  I  wouldn't  promise  not  to 
tell." 

"He  struck  jou,  eh?  He  stinick  you!  That  man 
struck  you,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Daddy." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"  They're  —  up  there  now.     I'm  frightened." 

"  Go  to  bed,  my  love.     Go  to  bed." 

He  carried  her  up  the  stairs  and  fondled  her,  and 
put  her  into  bed. 

"  It's  all  right,  my  love.  Go  to  sleep.  Pleasant 
dreams.     It's  all  right.     Daddy  will  look  after  you." 

Then  he  went  downstairs. 

A  shout  of  laughter  greeted  him  through  the  door  of 
the  sitting-room.  He  gripped  the  handle  and  walked 
deliberately  in.  Ted  Woollams  was  stretching  himself 
luxuriously  on  the  sofa.  His  heavy  sensual  face  ap- 
peared puffy  and  a  little  mussed.  Clara  was  lying 
back  in  an  easy  chair,  smoking  a  cigarette.  Jim  did 
not  speak.  He  walked  up  to  Ted  and  without  any 
preliminary  explanation  struck  him  full  on  the  nose 
with  his  clenched  fist.  For  a  moment  the  boxer  ap- 
peared more  surprised  than  anything.     His  eyes  nar- 


9'2  "  OLD  mO^  " 

rowed,  then  the  pain  of  the  blow  appeared  to  sting  him. 
He  rose  from  the  sofa  with  a  growl.  As  he  advanced 
upon  Jim,  the  latter  thought: 

"  He's  going  to  kill  me.  What  a  fool  I  was  not  to 
strike  him  with  a  poker !  " 

He  thrust  out  his  arms  in  an  ineffectual  defense. 
There  was  something  horribly  ugly,  ugly  and  revolting 
in  the  animal-like  lurch  of  the  man  bearing  down  on 
him  .  .  .  the  demon  of  an  inevitable  doom.  Jim 
struck  wildly  at  the  other's  arms,  at  the  same  time 
thinking : 

"  My  little  girl !     I  promised  to  look  after  her." 

A  jarring  blow  above  the  heart  staggered  him,  and  as 
he  began  to  crumple  forward  he  had  a  quick  vision  of 
the  more  destroying  fate,  the  something  which  came 
crashing  to  his  jaw.  He  heard  his  wife  scream;  then 
darkness  enveloped  him. 

A  long  and  very  confused  period  followed.  His 
glimpses  of  consciousness  were  intermittent  and  ac- 
companied by  pain.  He  heard  people  talking,  and 
they  appeared  strangers  to  him.  There  was  a  lot  of 
talking  going  on,  quarreling,  perhaps.  When  he  was 
once  more  a  complete  master  of  his  brain  he  realized 
abruptly  that  he  was  in  the  ward  of  a  hospital.  His 
jaw  was  strapped  up  tight  and  was  giving  him  great 
pain;  a  nurse  was  feeding  him  through  a  silver  tube. 
Two  of  his  teeth  were  missing.  He  wanted  to  talk  to 
her,  but  found  he  could  not  speak.  Then  he  recalled 
the  incident  of  his  calamity.  Well,  there  it  was.  He 
had  been  brought  up   in  a  hard   school.     Old  iron! 


"  OLD  IRON  »  93 

The  instinct  of  self-preservation  prompted  him  to  bide 
his  time.  Doubtless  his  jaw  was  broken;  a  long  job, 
but  he  would  get  well  again.  At  the  end  of  the  jour- 
ney Annie  awaited  him.  What  was  the  child  doing 
now?  Who  was  looking  after  her?  He  passed 
through  periods  of  mental  anguish  and  misgiving,  and 
then  long  periods  of  drowsy  immobility.  Night  suc- 
ceeded day.  To  his  surprise,  on  the  following  after- 
noon, his  wife  appeared.  She  came  and  sat  by  the  bed, 
and  said : 

"Going  on  all  right?" 

He  nodded.  She  looked  uneasily  round,  then  whis- 
pered : 

"  You  needn't  have  taken  on  like  that.  Ted's  going 
off  to  America,  to-morrow  —  fulfilling  engagements." 

Jim  stared  at  the  ceiling,  then  closed  his  eyes.  Ted 
no  longer  interested  him.  He  wanted  Annie,  and  he 
could  not  ask  for  her.  Clara  stayed  a  few  moments, 
chatted  with  the  nurse,  and  vanished.  Why  had  she 
come?  Later  on,  he  was  removed  to  the  operating 
theater,  and  they  re-set  his  jaw.  The  shift  of  time 
again  became  uncertain.  A  long  while  later  he  re- 
membered a  kindly-faced  man  in  a  white  overall  say- 


ing; 


"  Well,  old  chap,  who  struck  you  this  blow  ?  " 

He  bent  his  ear  down  to  Jim's  lips,  and  the  latter 
managed  to  reply: 

"  A  stranger." 

Isaac  came,  humid  and  concerned,  and  pressed  his 
hand. 


94  "  OLD  IKON  " 

"  Well,  well,  I've  found  you,  old  friend !  A  neigh- 
bor told  me.  Distressing  indeed.  They  say  you  must 
not  talk.     Well,  what  can  I  do  ?  " 

Jim  indicated  with  his  hands  that  he  wished  to  write 
something  down.  Isaac  produced  an  envelope  and  a 
pencil,  and  he  vsTote: 

"  Go  and  see  my  little  gal  Annie.  Send  her  to  me. 
Keep  an  eye  on  her." 

Isaac  nodded  gravely,  and  went  away. 

There  appeared  an  eternity  of  time  before  the  child 
came,  but  when  she  did  all  his  dark  forebodings  van- 
ished. She  came  smiling  up  the  ward,  and  kissed  him. 
They  held  each  other's  hands  for  a  long  time  before  she 
spoke. 

"  They  would  not  tell  me  where  you  were.  It  was 
old  Mr.  Eubens.     Oh,  Daddy,  are  you  getting  better  ?  " 

Yes,  he  was  getting  better.  Much  better.  During 
the  last  two  minutes  he  had  improved  enormously.  He 
felt  that  he  could  speak.     He  managed  to  mumble: 

"  How  are  you,  my  love  ?  " 

"  All  right.  Mother  has  been  very  cross.  That 
horrid  man  has  gone  away.  Mr.  Rubens  said  you  hurt 
your  face.     How  did  it  happen,  Daddy  ?  " 

"  I  slipped  on  the  stairs,  my  dear,  and  fell." 

Annie's  eyes  opened  very  wide,  but  she  did  not  speak. 
He  knew  by  her  manner  that  she  did  not  believe  him. 
At  the  back  of  her  eyes  there  still  lurked  something  of 
that  horror  which  haunted  them  on  the  night  when  she 
had  discovered  "  that  horrid  man "  embracing  her 
mother.     It    was    the    same    night    that    her    father 


"  OLD  IRON  "  95 

"  slipped  on  the  stairs."  The  child  was  too  astute  to 
dissociate  the  two  incidents,  but  she  did  not  want  to 
distress  him. 

"  I  shall  come  every  day,"  she  announced. 

He  smiled  gratefully,  and  she  stayed  and  cliatted 
with  him  until  the  sister  proclaimed  that  visitors  were 
to  depart. 

From  that  day  the  convalescence  of  Jim  Canning, 
although  slow,  was  assured.  Apart  from  the  broken 
jaw  he  had  suffered  a  slight  concussion  owing  to  strik- 
ing the  back  of  his  head  against  the  wall  when  he  fell. 
The  hospital  authorities  could  not  get  out  of  him  how 
the  accident  happened.  Annie  and  Isaac  Rubens  were 
regular  visitors,  but  during  the  seven  weeks  he  re- 
mained in  hospital  Clara  only  visited  him  twice,  and 
that  was  to  arrange  about  money.  On  the  day  that  he 
w^as  discharged  he  had  drawn  his  last  five  pounds  from 
the  bank. 

"  I^ever  mind,  never  mind,"  he  thought  to  himself ; 
"  we'll  soon  get  that  back." 

And  within  a  few  days  he  was  again  trundling  his 
barrow  along  the  streets,  calling  out  in  his  rather  high 
tremolo  voice,  "  Old  iron  !     Old  iron  !  " 

There  followed  after  that  a  long  period  in  the  life  of 
the  Canning  family  which  is  usually  designated  as 
"humdrum."  With  the  departure  of  Ted  Woollams, 
Clara  settled  down  into  a  listless  prosecution  of  her  do- 
mestic routine.  She  seldom  spoke  to  her  husband  ex- 
cept to  nag  him,  or  to  grumble  about  their  reduced  cir- 
cumstances, and  these  for  a  time  were  in  a  very  serious 


96  "OLD  IRON" 

state.  Debts  had  accumulated,  and  various  odds  and 
ends  in  the  house  had  disappeared  while  he  had  been  in 
hospital.  Clara  was  still  smartly  dressed,  but  Annie's 
clothes,  particularly  her  boots,  were  in  a  deplorable 
condition.  But  Jim  set  to  work,  leaving  home  in  the 
morning  at  seven  o'clock  and  often  not  returning  till 
eight  or  nine  at  night.  For  months  the  financial  posi- 
tion remained  precarious.  A  period  of  hunger,  and 
ill-temper,  and  sudden  ugly  brawls.  But  gradually  he 
began  again  to  get  it  under  control.  Clara  had  not  lost 
her  taste  for  good  living,  but  she  was  kept  in  check 
by  the  lack  of  means.  She  was  furtive,  sullen,  and 
resentful.  Jim  insisted  that  whatever  they  had  to 
go  without,  Annie  was  to  continue  with  her  school- 
ing. 

They  never  spoke  of  Ted  Woollams,  but  Jim  knew 
that  he  had  only  gone  away  for  four  or  five  months. 
Jim  struggled  on  through  the  winter  months,  out  in  all 
weathers  in  his  thin  and  battered  coat.  Sometimes 
twinges  of  rheumatism  distorted  his  face,  but  he  men- 
tioned it  to  no  one,  not  even  Isaac. 

It  was  in  April  that  a  sudden  and  dramatic  change 
came  into  Jim's  life.  One  morning  he  was  alone  in 
the  shop.  It  was  raining,  and  no  customers  had  been  in 
for  several  hours.  Jim  was  struggling  with  the  un- 
solvable  problem  of  getting  things  straight  and  sorted 
out.  Beneath  a  bed  he  came  across  a  jumble  of  inde- 
scribable things,  bits  of  iron  and  broken  pots,  odd  boots, 
sections  of  brackets,  nameless  odd-shaped  remnants  cov- 
ered with  dust  and  grime.     He  sighed.     He  remem- 


"  OLD  IROX  "  97 

bered  this  lot  quite  well.  They  had  been  a  great  dis- 
appointment to  him.  He  had  trundled  his  barrow  all 
the  way  down  to  a  sale  in  Greenwich,  where  he  had 
been  given  the  tip  that  there  were  some  good  things 
going.  Owing  to  losing  his  way,  he  had  ai-rived  late, 
and  all  the  plums  had  been  devoured  by  rival  dealers. 
lie  had  picked  up  this  lot  at  the  end  of  the  sale  for  a 
few  shillings,  not  that  they  appealed  to  him  as  a  good 
bargain,  but  because  he  did  not  want  to  feel  that  he  had 
completely  wasted  his  day.  He  had  brought  them 
back  and  dumped  them  under  the  bed,  intending  to  go 
through  them  later  on.  That  was  many  months  ago, 
long  before  he  had  been  to  the  hospital,  and  there  they 
had  remained  ever  since. 

Jim's  ideas  of  dusting  were  always  a  little  perfunc- 
tory. With  a  small  feather  brush  he  flicked  clouds  of 
dust  from  one  object  to  another,  Xo;  there  was  noth- 
ing here  of  any  value,  though  that  piece  of  torn  em- 
broidery might  fetch  five  shillings,  and  the  small  ob- 
long iron  box  which  some  one  had  painted  inside  and  out 
a  dark  green  might  be  worth  a  little  more.  He  picked 
it  up  and  examined  it.  A  ridiculous  notion  to  paint 
iron;  but  there!  people  were  fools,  particularly  cus- 
tomers. Of  course  it  might  be  copper  or  brass.  In 
that  case  it  would  be  worth  more.  He  pulled  out  a  long 
jack-knife  and  scraped  the  surface.  The  paint  was  old 
but  incredibly  thick.  It  must  have  had  a  dozen  coats 
or  so.  When  he  eventually  got  down  to  the  surface  he 
found  a  dark-blue  color. 

"  Um!  "  thought  Jim.     "  That's  a  funny  thing." 


98  "  OLD  IRON  " 

And  he  scraped  a  little  more,  and  found  some  brown 
and  white. 

"  That's  enamel/^  he  said  out  loud.  "  An  enamel 
box.  Um!  I'll  show  that  to  Isaac.  An  enamel  box 
might  be  worth  several  pounds." 

He  put  the  box  on  one  side,  and  continued  tidying 
up.  That  evening,  after  supper,  he  wrapped  the  box 
up  in  a  piece  of  newspaper  and  took  it  round  to  his 
friend. 

Isaac  adjusted  his  thickest  glasses  and  examined  the 
spot  where  Jim  had  scratched.  Then  he  went  to  the 
door  and  called  out : 

"  Lizzie,  bring  me  some  turpentine." 

When  the  turpentine  was  brought,  Isaac  began  to 
work  away  at  the  surface  with  a  rag  and  penknife. 
His  face  was  very  red,  but  he  made  no  remark  except 
once  to  mutter: 

"  This  paint  alone  is  twenty  or  thirty  years  old." 

It  took  him  nearly  half-an-hour  to  reveal  a  complete 
corner  of  the  box.  Then  he  sat  back  and  examined  it 
through  a  microscope.  Jim  waited  patiently.  At  last 
Isaac  put  it  down  and  tapped  the  table. 

"  This,"  he  said  deliberately,  "  is  a  Limoges  enamel 
box  of  the  finest  period.  An  amazing  find!  Where 
did  you  obtain  it  ?  " 

"  I  bought  it  at  a  sale  of  the  effects  of  an  old  lady 
named  Brandt,  at  Greenwich.  She  died  intestate,  and 
had  no  relatives." 

"  You  are  in  luck's  way,  Jim  Caiming." 

"  But  why  was  it  painted  dark-green  ?  " 


"  OLD  lEON  "  1)9 


«  'T 


There  are  many  mysteries  in  our  profession.  It 
was  probably  stolen  many  years  ago  —  possibly  a  cen- 
tury ago.  The  thief  knew  that  the  piece  was  too  well- 
known  to  attempt  to  dispose  of  for  some  time.  So  for 
security  he  painted  it  in  order  to  hide  it.  Then  some- 
thing happened.  He  may  have  died  or  been  sent  to 
prison.  The  box  passed  into  other  hands.  Nobody 
worried  about  it.  It  was  just  an  old  iron  box.  It  has 
probably  been  lying  in  a  lumber-room  for  years." 

"  It's  been  lying  in  my  shop  for  five  months.  Is  it 
worth  a  great  deal,  Isaac  ?  " 

Isaac  thoughtfully  stroked  his  chin. 

"  I  am  of  opinion  that  if  it  is  undamaged,  and  if  the 
rest  of  it  is  up  to  the  standard  of  this  part  we  have 
disclosed,  it  is  worth  many  thousand  pounds." 

Jim  looked  aghast. 

"  But  I  only  gave  six-and-sixpence  for  the  lot !  " 

"  It  is  the  fortune  of  our  profession." 

The  upshot  of  it  was  that  Jim  left  the  box  in  Isaac's 
hands  to  deal  with  as  he  thought  fit.  At  first  Isaac 
wished  to  waive  the  question  of  commission,  but  when 
Jim  pointed  out  that  but  for  Isaac's  superior  knowledge 
he  would  probably  have  sold  it  for  a  five-pound  note, 
the  Jew  agreed  to  sell  it  on  a  ten  per  cent,  basis.  Fair 
bargaining  on  both  sides. 

Jim  returned  home,  almost  dazed  by  the  news.  Was 
it  fair  to  obtain  such  a  large  sum  of  money  in  such  a 
way  ?  He  had  done  nothing  to  deserve  it.  And  yet  — 
who  should  have  it,  if  not  he?  The  old  lady  had  not 
even  any  relations.     She  was  an  eccentric  who  lived 


100  "  OLD  IKOIsT  " 

alone  with  a  crowd  of  cats.  An  enamel  box  has  no  at- 
traction to  a  cat. 

He  said  nothing  about  his  find  to  his  wife  or  to 
Annie.  He  did  not  wish  to  buoy  them  up  with  false 
hopes.  Perhaps,  after  all,  Isaac  might  be  mistaken,  or 
he  may  have  over-valued  the  object.  A  thousand 
pounds !  A  dazzling  sum.  Why,  he  could  almost  re- 
tire upon  it  to  —  Shorwell  Green,  where  it  was  so  quiet 
and  peaceful.  But  no !  Clara  would  not  agree  to 
that  —  the  Camden  Road  !  He  detested  the  Camden 
Road,  but  still,  there  it  was.  Clara  was  his  wife.  It 
was  only  fair  to  consider  her  wishes,  although  they  were 
so  unhappy  together.  In  any  case,  it  would  be  a  great 
relief;  security  for  years  to  come. 

He  went  back  to  his  work  as  though  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. Weeks  went  by,  and  Jim  heard  nothing  about 
the  enamel  box;  and  then,  one  morning,  he  received  a 
note  from  Isaac  asking  him  to  call  round  at  once. 

When  he  entered  his  friend's  shop  he  knew  that 
something  exceptional  had  happened.  Isaac  was  ex- 
cited.    He  glowed  and  smiled,  and  was  almost  jocular. 

"  Come  into  my  little  room,"  he  said. 

When  they  were  seated,  he  elaborately  produced  a 
cheque  from  his  vest  pocket,  and  handed  it  across  the 
table  to  Jim. 

"  Here  is  your  little  share.  I  have  kept  my  com- 
mission." 

It  was  a  cheque  for  £4,140.  Isaac  had  sold  it  for 
£4,600  to  a  well-known  collector. 

The  rest  of  that   day  was  like   a  dro^TO   to   Jim. 


"  OLD  IRON  "  101 

Truly,  he  returned  and  pretended  to  be  busy.  In  the 
afternoon,  he  even  went  out  and  trundled  his  barrow, 
calling  out,  "  Old  iron !  Old  iron !  "  but  he  did  it 
more  by  force  of  habit. 

"  I  need  not  do  this  any  more,"  he  kept  on  thinking. 
His  mind  was  occupied  with  many  visions.  It  was  a 
bri.'vht  spring  day,  with  light  fleecy  clouds  scudding 
above  the  chimney-pots.  How  beautiful  it  would  be 
in  that  Sussex  vale!  The  flowers  would  be  out,  and 
the  young  pollard- willows  reflected  in  the  cool  streams. 
Pleasant  to  lie  on  the  bank  and  fish,  and  forget  this 
grimy  life.  And  Annie,  racing  hither  and  thither, 
picking  the  buttercups  and  marguerites,  and  nestling 
by  his  side.  He  could  do  all  this !  Freedom,  by  one 
of  those  queer  twists  of  fate. 

The  day  wore  on,  and  he  still  continued  his  work  in  a 
dazed,  preoccupied  manner.  When  the  evening  came, 
a  feeling  of  exhaustion  crept  over  him.  Yes,  probably 
he  was  tired.  He  wanted  a  rest  and  change.  How 
fortunate  he  was.  And  yet  he  dreaded  breaking  the 
news  to  Clara.  She  would  immediately  demand  a  com- 
plete social  unheaval.  A  new  house,  new  furniture, 
luxuries,  and  parties,  and  social  excitements.  He  ar- 
rived home  late.     During  supper  he  was  very  silent. 

"  I  will  tell  her  afterwards,"  he  thought.  Annie 
was  in  bed.  She  should  be  told  to-morrow.  But  to- 
night it  must  be  broken  to  Clara.  After  all,  it  was 
true,  she  ivas  his  wife.  It  was  the  fair  thing  to  do. 
He  tried  to  recall  the  moments  of  passion  and  tender- 
ness of  the  early  days  of  their  honeymoon,  but  all  the 


102  "OLD  lEON"" 

other  ugly  visions  kept  dancing  before  his  eyes.  He 
lighted  his  pipe  and  gazed  around  the  untidy  room. 
Perhaps  she  would  improve.  Perhaps  the  changed 
conditions  would  soften  her,  and  make  her  more  amen- 
able. But  still,  she  was  his  wife,  and  if  she  wished  to 
live  in  the  Camden  Road,  well  .  .  . 

It  was  nearly  dark,  and  Clara  went  out  of  the  room, 
humming.  She  seemed  peculiarly  cheerful  to-night. 
Almost  as  if  she  knew.  .  .  .  He  fingered  the  cheque  in 
his  breast-pocket.  She  had  gone  upstairs  —  probably 
to  fetch  a  novel.  She  adored  a  certain  kind  of  novel. 
"When  she  came  down,  he  would  lay  the  cheque  on  the 
table,  and  say: 

"  Look,  Clara ;  see  what  has  happened  to  us !  " 

And  then  he  would  be  a  little  tender  with  her,  try 
and  make  her  understand  how  he  felt.  They  would 
start  all  over  again. 

And  then  happened  a  variant  of  that  hypothetical 
case  described  at  the  beginning  of  this  story.  Only,  in 
this  case  it  was  the  woman  who  went  out. 

Jim  was  sitting  there  with  his  fingers  on  the  cheque 
that  was  to  be  their  means  of  reconciliation,  and  with 
the  tears  already  banked  in  his  unuttered  speech,  when 
Clara  put  her  head  in  the  door.  She  had  her  hat  on. 
She  said: 

"  I'm  going  to  the  post." 

Jim  removed  his  hand  from  his  breast-pocket.  He 
sat  back,  and  heard  the  door  slam. 

"  I'll  tell  her  when  she  comes  in." 


"  OLD  IRON  "  103 

But  Clara  never  came  in.  He  waited  half-an-hour, 
and  then  he  thought: 

"  She's  gone  to  some  dissipation  with  a  friend.  Oh, 
well,  I  must  wait  up  till  she  returns,  I  suppose.  I'm 
sorry  she  has  disappointed  me  on  —  a  night  like  this, 
though." 

He  sat  dreaming  in  the  chair,  till  he  became  sud- 
denly painfully  aware  of  cold.  It  was  quite  dark. 
He  lighted  the  gas.  It  was  one  o'clock.  He  felt  his 
heart  beating  with  a  physical  dread.  Something  had 
happened  to  Clara.  Perhaps  she  had  been  run  over,  at 
the  very  moment  when  everything  was  going  to  change 
for  the  better  for  her.  He  blundered  his  way  out  into 
the  hall,  where  a  gas-jet  flickered  feebly,  and  groped 
for  his  overcoat.  On  it  he  found  a  note  pinned.  He 
turned  up  the  gas  higher,  and  read: 

"  I'm  going  off  to  Ted  Woollams,  I'm  sick  of  you,  and  the 
stinking  little  house.  Ted's  made  a  bit  in  America,  and  I 
give  you  the  address.  You  can  do  what  you  like  about  it,  but 
it's  no  good  you  ever  trying  to  get  me  back. 

"  Clara." 

It  was  characteristic  of  Jim  Canning  that  this  note 
made  him  cry.  He  was  so  sensitive  to  its  utter  cal- 
lousness and  ingratitude.  Then  he  dabbed  his  eyes 
with  his  old  rod  handkerchief,  and  went  upstairs.  He 
tapped  on  Annie's  door,  tlien  he  opened  it  and  said 
quietly : 

"  Annie,  it's  all  right,  my  dear.  It's  only  me.  May 
I  come  in  ?  " 


104  "  OLD  lEO^T  '> 

The  sleeping  child  was  awake  abruptly.  She  held 
out  her  arms. 

"  I  ought  not  to  have  woken  you  up,  my  love,  only  I 
felt  a  little  —  lonely.  Annie,  would  you  like  to  come 
away  with  me  to  a  beautiful  place  in  the  country, 
where  it's  all  woods  and  flowers,  and  little  streams  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Daddy,  yes !  And  would  there  be  lambs,  too, 
and  little  black  pigs,  and  brown  calves  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear ;  all  those  things ;  and  birds,  too,  and 
quietness,  and  freedom." 

"  But,  Daddy,  could  we  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear ;  I've  had  some  good  fortune." 

Annie  was  very  wide  awake  now,  and  she  sat  up  and 
clapped  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  Daddy,  when  can  we  go  ?  " 

"  Quite  soon,  my  dear.     Perhaps  in  a  few  weeks." 

When  he  had  closed  the  door,  he  dabbed  his  eyes 
again,  and  thought : 

''  It  was  unthinking  of  me.  I  oughtn't  to  have 
woken  her  up,  but  —  she  is  all  I  have." 

A  week  later  he  wrote  to  Clara: 

"  Dear  Clara, 

"  I  understand  that  for  the  last  week  you  have  been  living 
with  Ted  Woollams.  I  do  not  erittieize  your  action.  We  are 
all  as  God  made  us.  I  shall  in  the  dew  course  take  diverse 
proceedings  not  as  an  act  of  hostility  to  you  but  that  you  may 
marry  the  man  of  your  choice  and  be  respectable.  I  also  shall 
share  witli  you  the  result  of  a  good  deal  last  week  in  older 
that  you  may  not  want  and  so  close  with  check  for  £2020.  I 
think  this  fair.  "  Jm." 

It  was  Isaac  who  helped  him  over  all  the  difficult 


"  OLD  IKON  "  105 

problems  wliidi  occiiirod  at  that  time,  and  it  was  Isaac 
who  persuaded  liim  that  he  was  overdoing  the  "  fair- 
ness "  to  Clara.  He  said  that  under  the  circumstances 
he  had  no  moral  obligation  to  Clara,  and  that  £500 
would  be  lavish.  So  in  the  end  Jim  altered  the  cheque 
to  that  amount.  It  was  Isaac  who  took  over  the  lit- 
tle shop,  which  he  used  as  a  kind  of  dumping-ground 
of  his  superfluous  stock.  And  it  was  Isaac  who,  a  year 
after,  returned  letters  addressed  to  Jim  in  a  handwrit- 
ing he  recognized,  "  Gone  away.  Address  not  known." 
And  it  was  he  who  in  later  years  bore  the  brunt  of  the 
wild  invective  of  a  drunken  harridan  who  said  that  her 
husband  had  deserted  her,  and  would  not  hand  her  any 
of  the  fortune  he  must  have  inherited.  He  shook  his 
head  sadly,  and  replied  that  he  knew  nothing.  Mr. 
Canning  and  his  daughter  had  left  London.  He 
thought  they  had  gone  to  Australia. 

^Vlien  she  had  gone,  he  said  to  himself: 
"  It  would  distress  Jim  to  know  that  a  woman  who 
had  once  been  his  wife  had  sunk  to  such  a  condition." 
As  he  passed  through  to  the  room  at  the  back  he 
smiled  and  thought : 

"  How  fortunate  she  did  not  come  in  here !  " 
On  the  table  was  a  large  bowl  of  red  and  white  roses, 
with  the  label  and  card  still  lying  on  the  table.     On 
the  card  was  inscribed,   "  With  love  to  Uncle  Isaac. 
A." 

The  postmark  on  the  label  was  a  village  in  Sussex. 


LITTLE  WHITE  FROCK 


LITTLE  WHITE  FROCK 

WHEN  their  careers  are  finished,  the  painter, 
the  author,  the  architect,  the  sculptor,  may 
point  to  this  or  that,  and  say,  "  Lo,  this  is 
my  handiwork.  Future  generations  shall  rejoice  in 
me." 

But  to  the  actor  and  the  executive  musician  there  is 
nothing  left  but  —  memories. 

Their  permanence  lies  in  the  memories  of  the  people 
who  loved  them.  They  cannot  pass  it  on.  Some  one 
may  say  to  you,  "  Ah,  my  boy,  you  should  have  heard 
Jean  de  Reszke,"  or,  "  You  should  have  seen  Macready 
play  that  part."  And  you  are  bound  in  all  politeness  to 
accept  this  verdict,  but  if  you  have  not  heard  Jean  de 
Reszke,  nor  seen  Macready,  it  leaves  no  definite  im- 
pression on  you  at  all.  Indeed,  the  actor  is  in  worse 
case  than  the  musician.  For  at  the  present  time  there 
are  ingenious  mechanical  devices  for  caging  the  per- 
formance of  a  musician  with  varying  degrees  of  suc- 
cess, but  no  mechanism  could  ever  imprison  the  electric 
thrill  of  Joseph  Jefferson  or  Henry  Irving  on  their 
great  nights  of  triumph.  They  are  gone  forever,  cast 
away  among  the  limbo  of  the  myths. 

These  melancholy  reflections  occurred  to  me  on  the 

first  occasion  when  I  visited  Colin  Brancker.     I  met 

the  old  chap  first  of  all  in  the  public  library.     He  had 

109 


110  LITTLE  WHITE  FROCK 

a  fine,  distinguished  head,  with  long,  snow-white  hair. 
He  was  slim,  and  in  spite  of  a  pronounced  stoop,  he  car- 
ried himself  with  a  certain  distinction  and  alertness. 
I  was  a  fairly  regular  visitor  to  the  library,  and  I  al- 
ways found  him  devouring  the  magazines  and  news- 
papers which  I  particularly  wanted  to  read  myself. 
A  misunderstanding  about  a  copy  of  the  Saturday 
Review  led  to  a  few  formal  expressions  of  courtesy, 
on  the  following  day  to  a  casual  nod,  later  on  to  a  few 
words  about  the  weather;  then  to  a  profound  bow  on 
his  part  and  an  inquiry  after  his  health  from  me. 
Once  we  happened  to  be  going  out  at  the  same  time, 
and  I  walked  to  the  end  of  the  road  with  him. 

He  interested  me  at  once.  His  clear,  precise  diction, 
with  its  warm  timbre  of  restrained  emotion,  was  very 
arresting.  His  sympathy  about  the  merest  trifles 
stirred  you  to  the  depths.  If  he  said,  "  What  a  glorious 
day  it  is  to-day !  "  it  was  not  merely  a  conventional 
expression,  but  a  kind  of  paean  of  all  the  joy  and 
ecstasy  of  spring  life,  sunshine  and  young  lambs  frisk- 
ing in  the  green  meadows. 

If  he  said,  "  Oh !  I'm  so  sorry,"  in  reply  to  your  an- 
nouncement that  you  had  lost  your  'bus  ticket  coming 
along  and  had  had  to  pay  twice,  the  whole  dread  inci- 
dent appeared  to  you  envisaged  through  a  mist  of  tears. 
The  grief  of  Agamemnon  weeping  over  the  infidelity  of 
Clytemnestra  seemed  but  a  trite  affair  in  comparison. 

One  day,  with  infinite  tact,  he  invited  me  to  his 
"  humble  abode."  He  occupied  the  upper  part  of  a 
small  house  in  Talbot  Road.     He  lived  alone,  but  was 


LITTLE  WHITE  FROCK  111 

apparently  tended  by  a  gannt,  middle-aged  woman  who 
glided  about  the  place  in  felt  slippers. 

The  rooms  were,  as  he  expressed  it,  "  humble,"  but 
not  by  any  means  poverty-stricken.  lie  had  several 
pieces  of  old  furniture  and  bric-a-brac,  innumerable  me- 
mentoes and  photographs.  It  was  then  that  I  realized 
the  peculiar  position  of  the  actor.  If  he  had  been  a 
painter  I  could  have  looked  at  some  of  his  work  and 
have  "  placed  "  him ;  but  what  could  you  do  with  an 
old  actor  who  lived  so  much  in  the  past?  The  posi- 
tion seemed  to  me  pitiable. 

Doubtless  in  his  day  he  had  been  a  fine  and  dis- 
tinguished actor,  and  here  was  I,  who  knew  nothing 
about  him,  and  did  not  like  to  ask  what  parts  he  had 
played  because  I  felt  that  I  ought  to  know.  Neither 
was  he  very  informing.  Not  that  he  was  diffident  in 
speech  —  he  talked  well  and  volubly  —  but  I  had  to 
gather  what  he  had  done  by  his  various  implications. 
There  was  a  signed  photograph  of  himself  in  the  char- 
acter of  Malvolio,  and  in  many  other  Shakespearean 
parts.  There  were  also  signed  photographs  of  J.  L. 
Toole  and  Henry  Irving,  and  innumerable  actors,  some 
of  whom  were  famous  and  others  whose  names  were  un- 
familiar to  me.  By  slow  degrees  I  patched  together 
some  of  the  romantic  tissues  of  his  life.  Whatever  po- 
sition he  may  have  held  in  the  theatrical  world,  he 
certainly  still  had  the  faculty  of  moving  one  person 
profoundly  —  myself.  Everything  in  that  little  room 
seemed  to  vibrate  with  romance.  One  of  Irving's  pho- 
tographs was  inscribed  "  To  my  dear  old  friend,  Colin 


112  LITTLE  WHITE  FEOCK 

Brancker."  On  the  circular  table  was  an  enamel  snuff- 
box given  him  by  Nellie  Farren. 

When  he  spoke  of  his  mother  his  voice  sounded  like 
some  distant  organ  with  the  vox  Imrtianci  stop  pulled 
out.  I  gathered  that  his  mother  had  been  a  famous 
French  actress.  On  the  piano  was  a  fan  given  her  by 
the  Empress  Eugenie.  He  never  spoke  of  his  father. 
E'early  everything  had  some  intimate  association. 

I  formed  a  habit  of  calling  on  old  Brancker  on 
Thursday  evenings,  when  my  wife  usually  visited  an 
invalid  aunt.  The  experience  was  always  a  complete 
entertainment.  He  knew  nothing  of  my  world  and  I 
knew  nothing  of  his.  I  came  completely  under  the 
spell  of  his  imagery.  I  had  only  to  touch  some  trin- 
ket on  the  mantelpiece  to  set  the  whole  machinery  of 
retrospection  on  the  move.  He  came  haltingly  to  his 
subject  as  though  he  were  feeling  for  it  through  the 
lavender-scented  contents  of  some  old  drawer.  But 
when  the  subject  was  discovered,  he  brought  the  whole 
picture  vividly  before  my  mind.  I  could  see  those 
people  strutting  before  the  footlights,  hear  them  laugh 
and  joke  in  their  stuffy  lodgings  and  their  green-rooms, 
follow  their  hard  life  upon  the  road,  their  stiiiggles, 
and  adversities,  and  successes,  and  above  all  the  mov- 
ing throb  of  their  passions  and  romances. 

And  then  the  picture  would  die  out.  It  had  no  be- 
ginning and  no  end.  It  was  just  an  impression.  The 
angle  of  vision  would  alter.  Something  else  would  ap- 
pear upon  the  scene. 

After  a  time,  touched  with  pity  for  this  lonely  and 


LITTLE  WHITE  FROCK  113 

derelict  old  actor,  my  wife  and  I  occasionally  sent  him 
little  presents  of  game  and  j)ort  wine,  when  such  tilings 
came  our  way.  I  would  like  to  explain,  at  this  point, 
that  my  wife  is  younger  than  I.  Her  outlook  is  less 
critical  and  introspective.  To  use  her  own  expression, 
she  is  out  to  have  a  good  time.  She  enjoys  dances  and 
theaters  and  gay  parties.  And,  after  all,  why  shouldn't 
she?  She  is  young  and  beautiful  and  full  of  life. 
Her  hair  —  but  I  digress !  In  spite  of  the  pheasants 
and  the  port,  she  had  never  met  old  Brancker.  But 
one  day  we  all  happened  to  meet  at  the  corner  of  the 
Talbot  Bead.  I  then  enjoyed  an  entirely  novel  vision 
of  my  hero.  He  was  magnificent.  The  bow  he  made, 
the  long  sweep  of  the  hat,  would  have  put  d'Artagnan 
to  shame.  When  I  introduced  them,  he  held  her  hand 
for  a  moment,  and  said: 

"  It  is  indeed  a  great  pleasure." 

It  doesn't  sound  very  much  in  print,  but  Alice  com- 
pletely went  under.  She  blushed  with  pleasure,  and 
told  me  afterwards  that  she  thought  he  was  "  a  perfect 
old  dear."  The  affair  lapsed  for  several  weeks.  I  still 
continued  to  call  upon  him,  and  we  nearly  exhausted 
the  whole  gamut  of  his  belongings.  We  even  routed 
through  old  drawers  where  faded  remnants  of  ancient 
fustian  would  recall  some  moving  episode  of  the  past. 
I  became  greedy  for  these  visionary  adventures. 

One  night,  rather  late,  I  found  the  little  white  frock. 
So  familiar  had  I  become  with  my  old  friend  that  I 
was  allowed  to  poke  about  his  room  on  my  own,  and 
ask  him  questions.     It  was  a  child's  frock,  and  it  lay 


114  LITTLE  WHITE  FEOCK 

neatly  folded  on  the  top  of  a  chest  in  the  passage.  I 
brought  it  into  the  room,  where  he  was  sipping  his  rum- 
and-water,  and  said : 

"  What's  this,  Mr.  Brancker  ?  " 

He  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  frock,  and  instantly  I 
was  aware  that  he  was  strangely  moved.  At  first  an 
expression  of  surprise  and  bewilderment  crept  over  his 
face;  then  I  observed  a  look  of  utter  dejection  and  re- 
morse. He  did  not  speak,  and  rather  confusedly  I 
went  up  to  him  and  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  I  said.  "  Doubtless  there  is  some 
story.  ...  I  ought  not  to  have  .  .  ." 

Instantly  he  patted  my  arm  in  return,  and  muttered : 

"  1^0,  no.  It's  all  right,  old  boy.  I  will  tell  you. 
Only,  not  to-night.     IS'o,  not  to-night." 

He  stood  up  and  took  one  or  two  turns  up  and  down 
the  room  in  silence.  I  did  not  dare  to  intrude  into 
the  secret  chamber  of  his  memories.  Suddenly  he 
turned  to  me,  and  putting  his  arm  round  my  shoulder, 
he  exclaimed: 

"  Old  boy,  come  in  to-morrow.  Come  to  dinner. 
Bring  the  wife.  Yes,  you  must  both  come.  Come  to 
dinner  at  seven-thirty.  And  then  —  I  will  tell  you  the 
story  of  that  little  white  frock." 

It  happened  that  a  dance  my  wife  had  intended  going 
to  the  following  night  had  fallen  through.  To  my  sur- 
prise, she  jumped  at  Mr.  Brancker's  invitation.  She 
said  that  she  thought  it  would  be  extremely  interesting. 
I  felt  a  little  nervous  at  taking  her.  An  invitation  to 
dinner  for  the  first  time  is  always  a  doubtful  number. 


LITTLE  WHITE  FROCK  115 

The  social  equation  varies  so  alarmingly  and  unex- 
pectedly. My  wife  frequently  dined  at  what  she 
called  "  smart "  houses.  How  could  old  Brancker  pos- 
sibly manage  a  dinner  in  his  poky  rooms?  I  warned 
her  to  wear  her  oldest  and  shabbiest,  and  to  have  a  sand- 
wich before  we  started.  Needless  to  say,  my  advice 
was  ignored.  She  appeared  in  a  wonderful  go\vn  of 
pearl-gTay.  Experience  told  me  it  was  useless  to  pro- 
test, and  I  jogged  along  the  street  by  her  side  in  my 
tweed  suit.  And  then  I  had  my  second  surprise.  Old 
Brancker  was  in  immaculate  evening-dress.  Cun- 
ningly-modulated lights  revealed  a  table  glittering  with 
silver  and  glass.  I  mumbled  some  apology  for  my 
negligence,  but  in  his  most  courtly  way  he  expressed 
his  pleasure  that  I  had  treated  him  with  such  friendly 
lack  of  ceremony.  Nevertheless  this  question  of  dress 
—  as  so  often  happens  —  exercised  a  very  definite  effect 
upon  my  whole  evening.  I  felt  a  little  out  of  it.  My 
wife  and  old  Brancker  seemed  to  belong  to  one  world 
and  I  to  another.  Moreover,  their  conversation  flowed 
easily  and  naturally.  The  old  actor  was  in  his  most 
brilliant  mood,  and  Alice  sparkled  and  gurgled  in  re- 
sponse. Although  she  w^as  younger  and  Brancker  older 
than  I,  I  felt  at  times  that  I  was  the  oldest  of  the  three, 
and  that  they  were  just  children  playing  an  absorbing 
game.     And  the  dinner  was  the  third  surprise. 

The  gaunt  woman  ser\'ed  it,  gliding  in  and  out  of  the 
room  with  a  quiet  assurance.  It  was  no  lodging-house 
dinner,  but  the  artful  succession  of  little  dishes  which 
symbolizes  the  established  creed  of  superior-living  crea- 


116  LITTLE  WHITE  FROCK 

tures.  Wine,  too,  flowed  from  long-necked  bottles,  and 
coffee  was  served  in  diminutive  cnps.  At  length,  Mrs. 
Windsor  collected  the  last  vestiges  of  this  remarkable 
feast,  but  left  on  the  table  a  silver  tray  on  which  were 
set  four  liqueur  glasses  and  a  decanter  of  green  Char- 
treuse. 

"  Let  us  all  sit  round  the  fire,"  said  our  host.  "  But, 
first,  let  me  press  you  to  have  a  little  of  this  excellent 
beverage.  It  was  given  me  by  a  holy  brother,  a  man 
who  led  a  varied  life,  but  who,  alas !  died  in  disgrace." 

He  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow  as  though  the 
memory  were  too  sacred  to  be  discussed.  I  sighed  in- 
voluntarily, and  my  wife  said  brightly: 

"  ]^ot  for  me,  Mr,  Brancker ;  but  you  help  yourself. 
And  now  you're  going  to  tell  us  the  story  of  the  white 
frock." 

He  raised  his  fine  head  and  looked  at  her.  Then 
he  stretched  out  his  long  arm  across  the  table  and 
gently  pressed  her  hand. 

"  I  beg  of  you,  dear  lady,"  he  said  gently,  "  just  one 
drop  in  memory  of  my  friend." 

The  implied  sanctity  of  the  appeal  could  not  be  de- 
nied. Both  my  wife  and  I  partook  of  half  a  glass,  and 
though  I  am  by  nature  an  abstainer,  I  must  acknowl- 
edge that  it  tasted  very  good.  Old  Brancker's  hand 
trembled  as  he  poured  out  the  Chartreuse.  He  drank 
his  at  a  gulp,  and  as  though  the  emotion  were  not  yet 
stilled,  he  had  another  one.  Then  he  rose,  and,  taking 
my  wife's  arm,  he  led  her  to  the  easy  chair  by  the  fire. 
I  was  rather  proud  of  my  intimate  knowledge  of  the 


LITTLE  WHITE  FROCK  117 

old  actor's  possessions,  and  I  pointed  out  the  snuff-box 
which  Nellie  Farren  had  given  him,  and  the  photo- 
graph of  Irving,  with  its  inscription  "  To  my  dear  old 
friend." 

Brancker  sighed  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Per- 
haps one  does  not  boast  of  these  associations.  Perhaps 
it  is  vulgar,  but  I  knew  how  interested  Alice  would  be. 
When  we  had  done  a  round  of  the  rooms,  whither  in  his 
fatherly  way  he  had  conducted  my  wife  by  the  arm, 
and  occasionally  rested  his  hand  ever  so  lightly  on  her 
shoulder,  we  returned  to  the  dining-room,  and  Alice 
said: 

"  Now  show  me  this  little  white  frock !  " 

He  bowed,  and  without  a  word  went  out  into  the 
hall,  and  returned  with  the  frock,  which  he  spread 
reverently  over  the  back  of  a  chair. 

"  How  perfectly  sweet !  "  said  my  wife. 

For  a  few  moments  he  buried  his  head  in  his  hands, 
and  Alice  and  I  were  silent.  I  could  not  but  observe 
the  interesting  mise-en-scene  in  which  I  found  myself. 
The  dim  recesses  of  the  room,  heavy  with  memories. 
My  wife  cozily  curled  up  in  the  high  arm-chair,  the 
firelight  playing  on  her  fresh,  almost  childlike,  face, 
a  simple  ring  sparkling  on  her  finger,  and  on  the  pearly 
glint  of  her  diaphanous  gown.  On  the  other  side  of 
the  table  where  the  little  glasses  stood,  the  clear-cut 
features  and  long  snow-white  hair  of  the  old  actor, 
silhouetted  against  a  dark  cabinet.  And  then,  like  some 
fragile  ghost  recalled  to  bear  witness  to  its  tragic  past, 
the  dim  outline  of  the  child's  white  frock. 


118  LITTLE  WHITE  FROCK 

"  It  was  before  your  time,  mes  enfants,  long,  long 
before  your  time,"  lie  said  suddenly.  "  You  would  not 
remember  the  famous  Charles  Cai-side  Company  who 
staiTed  the  provinces.  We  became  known  as  the  Ca- 
pacity Company.  The  title  was  doubly-earned.  We 
always  played  to  full  houses,  and  in  those  days  — " 

He  turned  to  me  with  a  penetrating,  almost  challeng- 
ing look,  and  added: 

"  There  were  actors.  Comedy,  and  tragedy,  history, 
everything  worth  doing,  in  the  legitimate,  was  in  our 
repertoire.  We  changed  our  bill  every  night,  and  some- 
times twice  a  day.  Ay,  and  we  changed  our  parts, 
sir.  I  remember  Terry  O'Bane  and  I  reversing  the 
parts  of  Othello  and  lago  on  alternate  nights  for  two 
weeks  at  a  stretch.  I  played  Lord  Stamford  to  his 
Puttick  in  '  The  Golden  Dawn.'  He  played  Shylock 
to  my  Bassanio.  I  will  not  bore  you  with  these  details. 
Ah  !  poor  old  Terry  !     Poor  dear  old  Terry  !  " 

He  stopped  and  looked  down  at  his  hands,  and  neither 
of  us  spoke. 

"  When  I  say  that  Terry  O'Bane  and  I  were  friends, 
I  want  to  tell  you  that  we  were  friends  as  only  artists 
can  be  friends.  We  loved  each  other.  For  three  years 
we  worked  together  side  by  side  —  never  a  suspicion 
of  envy,  never  a  suspicion  of  jealousy.  I  remember 
one  night,  after  Terry's  delivery  of  Jaques'  speech  on 
the  fool,  he  did  not  get  a  hand.  I  found  him  weeping 
in  the  wings.  '  Old  fellow ! '  I  said,  but  he  gripped  me 
by  the  arai.  '  Colly  boy,'  he  answered,  '  I  was  think- 
ing of  you.     I  knew  how  distressed  you  would  be ! ' 


LITTLE  WHITE  FROCK  119 

Think  of  that !  His  only  concern  was  that  /  should  be 
distressed.     Ah !  in  those  days  .  .  ." 

He  stretched  his  long  white  fingers  and  examined 
them ;  then,  turning  suddenly  to  my  wife,  he  said : 

"  I  want  to  ask  you,  mademoiselle "  (he  persisted 
in  calling  her  'mademoiselle'  all  the  evening),  "to 
make  allowances  in  what  I  am  about  to  tell  you  for  the 
tempora  et  mores.  In  my  young  days  love  had  a 
different  significance  to  what  it  has  now.  In  this 
modern  world  I  obsei've  nothing  but  expediency  and 
opportunism.  Xo  one  is  prepared  to  sacrifice,  to  run 
risks.  The  love  between  O'Bane  and  me  was  an  epic 
of  self-sacrifice,  and  it  ran  its  full  course.  It  found  its 
acid  test  on  the  day  when  Sophie  Wiles  joined  our  com- 
pany at  Leeds." 

He  stood  up,  and  his  voice  trembled  in  a  low  whisper. 
Looking  at  Alice,  he  said : 

"  She  was  as  beautiful,  as  fragile,  as  adorable  as  you 
are,  mademoiselle.  Strange  how  these  great  secrets  are 
conveyed  imperceptibly.  O'Bane  and  I  looked  at  each 
other,  and  instinctively  we  understood.  We  said  noth- 
ing. We  made  no  comment  about  her.  We  were  en- 
tirely solicitous  of  each  other's  feelings.  We  referred 
to  her  as  '  Miss  Wiles  '  and  we  addressed  her  as  '  Miss 
Wiles.'  Before  we  had  been  three  weeks  on  the  road  I 
knew  that  if  I  had  not  kno^vii  O'Bane's  feelings  I  should 
have  gone  to  her  and  said,  '  Sophie,  my  darling,  my 
angel,  I  love  you,  I  adore  you.  Will  you  marry  me  ? ' 
But  would  it  have  been  chivalrous  to  do  this,  knowing 
O'Bane's  sentiments  ?     We  were  two  months  on  the  road 


120  LITTLE  WHITE  EKOCK 

before  the  matter  reached  its  climax.  And  during  that 
time  —  under  an  unspoken  compact  —  neither  of  us 
made  love  to  Sophie.  And  then,  one  night,  I  could  bear 
it  no  longer.  I  saw  the  drawn  and  hungry  look  in  my 
colleague's  eye  as  he  watched  her  from  the  wings.  I 
went  up  to  him  and  whispered,  '  Old  fellow,  go  in  and 
win.  She's  worthy  of  you.'  He  understood  me  at 
once,  and  he  pressed  my  hand.  '  Colly,'  he  said,  '  you're 
right.  This  can't  go  on.  Meet  me  after  the  show  and 
come  round  to  my  rooms.'  " 

The  old  actor's  lips  were  trembling.  He  drew  his 
chair  nearer  to  my  wife's.  "  I  cannot  tell  you  of  the 
heart-burning  interview  I  had  with  my  old  friend  that 
night.  Each  tried  to  give  way  to  the  other.  It  was 
very  terrible,  very  moving.  At  length  we  decided  that 
the  only  solution  would  be  to  put  the  matter  to  a  hazard. 
We  could  not  cut  cards  or  throw  dice.  It  seemed  pro- 
fane. We  decided  to  play  a  game  of  chess.  We  set 
out  the  pieces  and  began.  But  at  the  end  of  a  few 
moments  it  was  apparent  that  each  was  trying  to  let  the 
other  win.  ^  Stay,'  I  said ;  '  we  must  leave  the  verdict 
to  impartial  destiny,  after  all,'  and  I  rose.  On  the 
sideboard  —  as  it  might  be  here  —  was  a  large  bowl  of 
Gloire-de-Dijon  roses.  I  took  the  largest  bloom  and 
said,  '  Terry,  old  boy,  if  there  are  an  odd  number  of 
petals  in  this  rose,  she  is  yours.  If  an  even  number,  I 
will  pay  her  court.'  He  agreed.  Slowly  and  deliber- 
ately, petal  by  petal,  I  destroyed  the  beautiful  bloom. 
There  were  fifty-eight  petals.  When  Terry  saw  the  last 
petal  fall  he  turned  white  and  swayed.     I  helped  him 


LITTLE  WHITE  FROCK  121 

to  the  easj-chair  and  handed  liim  a  little  grog.  It  was 
nearly  dauTi.  Already  the  birds  were  twittering  on  the 
window-sill." 

He  turned  and  gazed  at  the  window  as  though  even 
now  the  magic  of  that  early  moraing  was  upon  him. 

"  The  dauTi  was  clear  for  me,  but  for  my  friend  how 
dark  and  foreboding!  Or  so  it  seemed  to  both  of  us 
at  that  hour.  But,  as  Mahomet  said,  '  With  women, 
life  is  a  condition  of  flux.'  At  eleven  o'clock  that 
morning  I  was  on  my  bended  knees  to  Sophie.  I  poured 
out  all  my  pent-up  feelings  of  the  two  months.  There 
are  some  things  too  sacred  to  repeat  even  to  those  who 
are  —  dear  to  us." 

He  gasped  and,  stretching  out  his  arm,  poured  out 
another  glass  of  the  Chartreuse. 

"  She  refused  me,  or  if  she  did  not  actually  refuse 
me  —  indeed,  she  did  not ;  she  was  sympathetic,  almost 
loving,  but  so  —  indeterminate  that  I  was  almost  driven 
to  a  frenzy  of  despair.  When  one  is  young,  one  is  like 
that.  One  must  have  all,  and  at  once,  or  go  crazy  with 
despair.  For  a  week  I  courted  her  day  and  night, 
and  I  could  not  make  her  decide.  She  liked  me,  but 
she  did  not  love  me.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  I  went  to 
O'Bane,  and  I  said,  '  Old  man,  it  is  your  call.  My 
pai*t  is  played.'  Under  great  pressure  from  me  he 
consented  to  enter  the  lists,  and  I  withheld  my  hand 
as  he  had  done.  Even  now  the  memory  of  that  week  of 
anguish  when  I  knew  that  my  greatest  friend  was 
making  love  to  my  adored  is  almost  unbearable.  At 
the  end  of  the  week  he  came  to  me  and  said,  '  Old  boy, 


122  LITTLE  WHITE  FKOCK 

I  don't  know  how  I  stand.  She  likes  me,  but  I  hardly 
think  she  loves  me.'  I  will  not  burden  you  with  the 
chronicle  of  our  strange  actions  which  followed.  We 
decided  that  as  the  question  was  identical  it  should 
be  an  open  fight  in  a  fair  field,  otherwise,  between  us, 
we  should  lose  her  altogether.  We  would  both  pay 
court  to  her  wherever  and  whenever  the  opportunity 
occurred.  And  we  would  do  so  without  animosity  or 
ill-will.  The  tour  lasted  three  months,  and  I  knew 
that  O'Bane  was  winning.  There  was  no  question  about 
it.  He  was  the  favorite.  Every  minute  I  was  ex- 
pecting to  hear  the  dread  glad  tidings.  And  then  a 
strange  thing  happened." 

He  leant  back  in  his  chair  and  passed  his  hands 
through  his  hair  with  a  graceful  gesture. 

"  An  uncle  in  Australia  died  and  left  O'Bane  an 
enormous  fortune.  He  was  rich  beyond  the  dreams  of 
avarice.  The  company  all  knew  of  it,  and  were  de- 
lighted, all  —  all  except  one  person." 

He  glanced  towards  my  wife,  and  sighed. 

"  I  have  lived  a  good  many  years,  and  yet  I  seem 
to  find  the  heart  of  woman  as  unfathomable,  as  unex- 
plorable  as  ever.  They  are  to  me  the  magic  casements 
opening  on  the  night.  There  is  no  limit  .  .  .  every 
subtle  human  experience  is  capable  of  endless  variation. 
Sophie  refused  to  marry  O'Bane  because  people  would 
think  she  married  him  for  his  money.  The  anguish 
of  those  last  weeks  I  shall  never  forget.  She  definitely 
refused  him,  and  I  was  torn  between  my  love  for  O'Bane 
and  my  love  for  Sophie.     I  can  say  with  perfect  truth  — 


LITTLE  WHITE  FROCK  123 

literal  truth  —  that  the  fortune  killed  O'Baue.  When 
Ave  aiTived  in  London,  he  began  to  squander.  He 
drank,  gambled,  and  led  a  depraved  life,  all  because 
the  woman  he  loved  would  not  marry  him.  In  the 
spring  he  left  the  company  and  took  a  house  in  town. 
It  became  the  happy  hunting-ground  of  loose  characters. 
It  is  needless  to  say  that  if  Sophie  wouldn't  man-y  him, 
there  were  plenty  of  other  women  willing  to  marry  a 
young  millionaire.  He  became  entangled  with  a  fast 
and  pretty  creature  called  Annabel  Peacock.  He  mar- 
ried her,  and  in  the  following  year  they  had  a  child." 

The  fire  crackled  on  the  hearth;  my  wife  did  not 
take  her  eyes  from  the  old  actor's  face.  A  black  cat 
strolled  leisurely  across  the  room  and  stretched  itself 
before  the  fire.     He  continued: 

"  It  was  then  that  I  experienced  an  entirely  novel 
vision  of  woman's  character.  Sophie,  who  would  not 
marry  O'Bane  because  he  was  rich,  and  who  shivered 
with  disgust  in  the  presence  of  Annabel  Peacock,  de- 
veloped an  amazing  affection  and  interest  for  their  child. 
We  were  out  again  in  the  Capacity  Company.  I  had 
her  all  to  myself.  I  laid  siege  to  her  heart.  I  was 
patient,  tactful,  importunate,  imploring,  passionate. 
But  it  was  all  no  good,  my  boy  ...  no  good  at  all. 
Heigho !  would  you  believe  it  ?  —  for  ten  years  of  my 
life  from  that  date  I  was  that  woman's  slave,  and  she 
was  the  slave  of  Teri-y's  child.  Company  after  com- 
pany I  joined  in  order  to  be  with  her.  I  gave  up  good 
parts.  I  sacrificed  leads,  and  in  fact  I  even  accepted 
a  walk-on  —  anything  to  be  with  Sophie.     Sophie,  who 


124  LITTLE  WHITE  FROCK 

would  not  listen  to  me,  who  treated  me  like  a  little  pet, 
to  run  hither  and  thither,  and  who  spent  all  her  money 
and  time  on  toys  and  clothes  for  Terry's  child.  Would 
you  believe  it  ?  " 

To  my  surprise,  my  wife  spoke  for  the  first  time. 
She  said:  "Yes." 

Brancker  looked  at  her  keenly,  and  nodded. 

"  Yes.  In  any  affair  between  a  man  and  a  woman, 
a  man  finds  himself  at  a  disadvantage.  Mademoiselle, 
you  see,  understands.  Women  have  all  kinds  of  mys- 
terious intuitions  and  senses  which  we  wot  not  of. 
She  is  armed  at  every  point.  She  has  more  resources. 
She  is  better-equipped  than  man.  Sophie  even  made  a 
friend  of  Annabel.  She  wrote  her  loving  letters  and 
called  her  '  my  dearest.'  For  you  must  know  that  two 
years  after  his  marriage  my  old  friend  Terry  O'Bane 
went  under.  He  awakened  one  night  feeling  ill;  he 
groped  in  a  chest  where  he  usually  kept  a  flask  of 
brandy.  He  took  a  gulp.  The  liquid  he  drew  into 
his  throat  was  pure  liquid  ammonia  which  Annabel  had 
been  using  for  photographic  work.  She  was  a  keen 
amateur  photographer.  He  rushed  out  into  the  street 
in  his  pajamas,  and  died  in  the  arms  of  a  policeman 
at  the  comer." 

The  hon-or  of  this  episode  was  written  plainly  in 
the  old  man's  face.  He  delivered  it  with  a  kind  of 
dramatic  despair,  as  though  he  knew  it  had  to  be  told 
and  he  could  not  control  himself.  Then  he  seemed 
to  fall  to  pieces,  and  lay  huddled  at  the  back  of  his 
chair.     I  looked  at  Alice  furtivelv,   and  1  could  see 


LITTLE  WHITE  FROCK  125 

a  tear  swimminc^  on  the  brink  of  her  eye.     It  was  some 
moments  before  he  could  continue. 

"  These  were  all  the  best  years  of  my  life,  mcs  en- 
fants,  when  my  powers  were  at  their  highest.  My  old 
friend  Toole  offered  me  a  good  part  in  London.  He 
said  to  me,  '  Brancker,  old  man,  you're  wasting  your- 
self in  the  provinces.  Come  to  town  and  take  a  lead.' 
I  could  only  press  his  hand  and  thank  him.  In  another 
week  or  two  I  was  on  the  road  again  with  Sophie.  As 
the  years  went  by  she  became  more  and  more  absorbed 
by  Terry's  unattractive  child,  and  more  and  more  dis- 
tressed concerning  it.  For  you  must  know  that  in 
spite  of  his  profligate  life,  Terry  still  had  left  a  con- 
siderable fortune,  and  Annabel  continued  to  live  in  the 
same  way.  And  it  was  the  worst  possible  atmosphere 
to  bring  a  child  up  in.  Annabel  was  kind  to  the  child 
in  a  spasmodic  way,  passionate  and  unreliable.  She 
would  pet  it  and  coax  it,  and  buy  it  expensive  toys  and 
dresses,  and  then  suddenly  neglect  or  scold  it.  Sophie 
knew  this,  and  all  the  time  she  could  spare  she  went 
to  London  and  tried  to  help  the  situation.  She 
humored  and  flattered  Annabel,  who  was  quite  manage- 
able if  you  treated  her  like  this,  and  she  did  what  she 
could  to  influence  the  early  training  of  the  child  for 
good.  But,  as  you  may  imagine,  the  little  minx  grew 
up  the  spit  and  image  of  her  mother.  She  was  vain, 
fickle,  and  spoilt.  By  the  time  she  was  ten  she  thought 
of  nothing  but  her  looks  and  her  frocks;  and  she  was 
indeed  a  very  pretty  child.  She  had  all  the  prettiness 
of  her  mother,  with  something  of  her  father's  grace  and 


126  LITTLE  WHITE  FROCK 

charm.  She  was  encouraged  to  amuse  the  vulgar  people 
who  came  to  the  house,  and  she  was  allowed  to  listen 
to  all  the  loose  talk,  and  to  sit  up  to  any  hour  she  liked, 
unless  Annabel  happened  to  be  in  a  contrary  mood, 
when  she  woidd  slap  the  child  and  lock  her  in  her 
room. 

"  '  Aunt  Sophie,'  as  she  called  her,  was  a  favorite  with 
Lucy,  but  only,  I'm  afraid,  because  '  Aunt  Sophie ' 
gave  her  expensive  toys,  and  lavished  her  love  per- 
sistently upon  the  child.  She  wrote  to  her  nearly  every 
day,  wherever  she  happened  to  be,  and  sent  her  little 
gifts." 

The  old  man  mopped  his  forehead.  He  was  evi- 
dently laboring  under  the  severe  strain  which  the  in- 
voking of  these  memories  put  upon  him.  He  walked 
to  the  sideboard  and  poured  himself  out  a  glass  of  water, 
into  which  he  poured  —  an  as  after-thought  —  a  tiny 
drop  of  rum.  After  taking  two  long,  meditative  gulps, 
he  resumed  his  seat.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
all  about  our  presence.  He  was  living  in  the  past.  But 
suddenly  he  turned  to  my  wife  and  said: 

"  I  have  many  of  the  beautiful  frocks  which  Sophie 
made  for  little  Lucy.  They  have  come  down  to  me. 
If  it  would  not  bore  you  to  call  one  afternoon,  made- 
moiselle, I  could  show  you  some  that  might  interest 
you."  There  was  a  strange,  eager  appeal  in  his  voice. 
It  seemed  a  matter  of  tremendous  moment  that  Alice 
should  go  and  inspect  the  frocks.  My  heart  bled  for 
him.  "  Of  course  she  will  go,"  I  thought,  but  to  my 
surprise,  she  said  nothing.     She  just  looked  at  him  with 


LITTLE  WHITE  FROCK  127 

that  queer,  watchful  expression  that  women  alone  arc 
capable  of.  Perhaps  it  is  part  of  what  the  old  chap 
referred  to  —  their  equipment.  She  toyed  with  the 
chain  on  her  frock,  and  his  eye  meditated  her  move- 
ments. He  hesitated,  and  then  rather  nervously  pro- 
ceeded, as  though  talking  to  himself. 

"  Frocks !  What  a  part  they  play  in  our  lives. 
Carlyle  was  right.  Sophie  was  extraordinarily  clever 
with  her  needle.  She  had  a  genius  for  combining  mate- 
rials. Her  theatrical  experience  helped  her.  She 
made  the  most  alluring  frocks.  The  child  adored 
'  Aunt  Sophie's  '  frocks.  They  always  looked  so  strik- 
ing and  so  professional.  The  crisis  in  my  life,  and 
which  I  am  about  to  tell  you  of,  was  indeed  occasioned 
by  one  of  the  frocks  which  Sophie  made  for  Lucy.  It 
came  about  in  this  way." 

He  paused  again,  and  tapped  the  top  of  the  table 
with  his  beautiful  white  hands. 

"  That  last  year  —  that  year  when  Lucy  reached  her 
tenth  birthday  —  the  excesses  in  Annabel's  house 
reached  their  zenith.  The  place  became  notorious. 
Annabel  had  taken  to  herself  a  drunken  lord.  Lord 
Starborough.  He  was  a  dissipated  young  roue.  He 
rather  took  a  fancy  to  Lucy,  and  he  spoilt  her  in  the 
same  way  that  Annabel  did.  We  heard  stories  of  the 
goings  on.  The  child  was  taken  to  houses  to  dance.  I 
believe  she  was  even  taught  to  put  on  rouge.  There 
was  a  rich  family  called  the  Ark\vrights,  who  also  had 
children,  and  who  lived  a  similar  life.  These  children 
were  Lucy's  great  friends.     They  vied  with  each  other 


128  LITTLE  WHITE  FEOCK 

in  their  infantile  snobbery.  The  parents  gave  elaborate 
parties  and  tried  to  outshine  each  other  in  the  lavish- 
ness  of  their  entertainment,  and  the  overdressing  of  the 
children.  It  was  very,  very  painful.  Even  I,  whose 
life  was  being  wrecked  by  Sophie's  adulation  of  this 
child,  felt  sorry.  My  heart  bled  for  my  old  friend's 
daughter. 

"  We  had  a  long  tour  that  autumn,  Sophie  and  I. 
We  were  out  in  '  The  Woman  Who  Failed.'  Sophie 
had  a  lead,  but  I  was  only  playing  the  part  of  a  butler. 
It  was  a  long  and  trying  tour  up  I^orth.  The  weather 
was  very  bitter.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  sickness,  and 
our  chief  was  a  hard  man.  Early  in  December  Sophie 
caught  a  cold  which  rapidly  developed  into  bronchitis. 
She  had  a  narrow  escape.  She  was,  however,  only  out 
of  the  bill  for  ten  days.  She  insisted  on  returning  and 
struggling  on.  The  tour  was  to  end  on  Christmas  Eve. 
One  day  she  had  a  letter  from  Lucy.  I  remember  the 
exact  words  to  this  day.  '  Dear  Aunt  Sophie,  do  make 
me  a  lovely  frock  for  Christmas  Eve.  The  Arkwrights 
are  having  a  lovely  ball,  and  I  know  Irene  is  having  a 
gold  and  green,  with  a  sparkling  veil.  Your  loving 
Lucy.' 

"  When  Sophie  got  this  letter  she  smiled.  She  was 
happy.  She  was  always  happy  when  doing  a  service. 
Ah !  me.  .  .  .  For  nearly  a  week  she  thought  and 
dreamt  about  the  frock  she  was  going  to  make  for  Lucy 
for  the  Arkwrights'  party.  She  knew  what  the  child 
wanted  —  a  frock  to  outshine  all  the  others.  Then 
another  story  reached  us.     I  have  forgotten  what  it  was : 


LITTLE  WHITE  FROCK  129 

some  distressing  record  of  these  Arkwrigbt  people. 
One  night  after  the  show  she  sent  for  me.  I  could  tell 
she  was  very  agitated.  She  clutched  my  arm,  and  said, 
*  Old  man,  I  know  what  I'm  going  to  do.  I'm  going  to 
make  Lucy  a  frock  which  will  outshine  all  the  others. 
And  it  will  be  just  a  plain  white  frock,  with  no  adorn- 
ment of  any  sort.  Just  think  of  it, —  amongst  all  those 
vulgar,  overdressed  children,  one  little  girl,  as  pretty  as 
Lucy, —  in  plain  white.  And  they  will  be  bound  to 
appreciate  it.  It  will  tell.  And  perhaps  she  will  real- 
ize—  what  it  means.  Good  taste  and  refinement  will 
always  tell  against  vulgarity.'  I  applauded  Sophie's 
idea,  and  I  went  with  her  to  get  the  material.  But 
she  fainted  in  the  shop.  During  those  last  few  days 
I  began  to  realize  that  Sophie  was  very  ill.  She  was 
simply  living  on  her  nervous  force,  keeping  herself 
going  in  order  to  complete  the  tour,  and  to  deliver 
Lucy's  frock  in  time  for  the  ball. 

"  Our  last  journey  back  was  from  Nottingham.  We 
arrived  in  London  at  five  o'clock  on  Christmas  Eve.  I 
was  in  a  fever  of  dread.  I  believed  that  Sophie  was 
dying.  She  kept  swaying  in  the  train  as  though  she 
was  going  to  drop.  Her  face  was  deadly-white,  her 
eyes  unnaturally  bright,  and  her  fingers  were  still  busy 
on  the  frock.  So  absorbed  had  I  been  in  Sophie's 
affairs,  I  had  made  no  arrangements  about  lodgings  in 
town.  Neither  had  she.  But  my  old  friend,  Joe  Cad- 
gers, seeing  my  distress,  said,  '  Old  boy,  leave  it  to  me. 
I  know  a  snug  little  place  where  they'll  take  you  in. 
I'm  not  stopping.     I'm  going  straight  through  to  Hast- 


130  LITTLE  WHITE  EROCK 

ings.'  I  thanked  my  old  friend  ajid  embraced  him. 
When  we  got  to  Euston,  we  got  Sophie  into  a  four- 
wheeled  cab,  and  Joe  Gadgers  came  with  us  to  arrange 
the  introduction.  I  hardly  noticed  where  the  lodgings 
were  —  somewhere  in  Clapham,  I  think.  We  arrived 
there,  and  a  good  lady  took  us  in  without  hesitation. 
We  put  Sophie  to  bed.  She  was  almost  delirious,  but 
still  the  frock  was  not  quite  finished.  Joe  left  us,  and 
I  sat  by  her  bedside,  watching  her  busy  fingers.  I 
knew  it  was  useless  to  protest.  The  clock  on  the  man- 
telpiece ticked,  and  outside  the  snow  was  beginning  to 
fall." 

Colin  Brancker  stood  up,  and  suddenly  picked  up 
the  little  white  frock  from  the  back  of  the  chair.  He 
held  it  in  his  arms  reverently  and  tenderly.  His  voice 
was  strong  and  resonant.  He  stood  there,  and  acted  the 
scene  vividly  before  our  eyes. 

"  At  ten  minutes  to  seven  I  left  the  house,  holding 
the  frock  in  my  arms.  I  rushed  out  without  a  hat,  with- 
out a  coat.  I  fiew  along  the  street,  calling  out  for  a 
cab  like  a  madman.  ...  At  last  I  got  one.  I  told  the 
driver  to  drive  like  the  furies  to  the  address  I  gave 
him  in  Kensington.  In  the  cab  I  stamped  my  feet 
and  rocked  the  dress  in  my  arms  as  though  it  were  a 
fevered  child.  I  don't  know  how  we  got  there.  It 
seemed  an  eternity.  I  fiung  into  the  house,  calling  out, 
'  Lucy !  Lucy !  '  I  found  her  in  the  drawing-room. 
She  was  dressed  in  a  flaming  orange  and  silver  dress, 
with  a  sparkling  tiara  in  her  hair.  She  was  looking  in 
a  mirror  and  putting  finishing  touches  to  her  hair. 


LITTLE  WHITE  FROCK  131 

She  cried  out  Avheu  she  saw  me :  '  ITiillo !  I  thought 
Aunt  Sophie  had  forgotten  me.  I've  hired  a  frock  from 
Roco's.'  '  Child,'  I  said,  '  your  Aunt  Sophie  has  been 
working  out  her  life's  blood  for  you.  Here  is  the 
frock.'  She  grabbed  it  and  examined  it.  '  Frock !  ' 
she  said.  '  It  looks  more  like  a  nightdress.  I  don't 
want  the  beastly  old  thing ' ;  and  she  threw  it  across 
the  room.  I  believe  at  that  moment  I  could  have 
struck  the  child.  I  was  blind  with  fury.  Fortunately, 
I  remembered  in  time  that  she  was  my  old  friend  Terry 
O'Bane's  daughter.  I  picked  up  the  frock.  '  Ungrate- 
ful child  !  '  I  exclaimed.  '  You  don't  know  what  you're 
doing.  You're  murdering  an  ideal.  You're  killing 
your  aunt.'  She  tossed  her  insolent  head  and  actually 
pressed  the  bell  for  the  butler  to  see  me  out.  Just  like 
a  grown-up  person.  Dazed  and  baffled,  I  clutched  the 
little  white  frock  and  staggered  out  into  the  street. 
The  night  was  dark,  and  the  snow  was  still  falling. 
Christmas  bells  were  beginning  to  peal.  ...  I  plunged 
on  and  on,  my  heart  beating  against  my  ribs.  People 
stared  at  me,  but  I  was  too  distressed  to  care.  How 
could  I  go  back  to  Sophie  with  the  insulting  message? 
Suddenly,  at  the  corner  of  Hyde  Park,  a  most  appalling 
realization  flashed  through  my  mind.  I  had  made  no 
note  of  the  address  of  the  lodgings  where  Sophie  and  I 
tvere  staying !  .  .  .  God  in  heaven !  What  was  I  to 
do  ?  The  only  man  who  could  help  me,  my  old  friend, 
Joe  Gadgers,  had  gone  to  Hastings.  What  could  I  do  ? 
Could  I  go  to  the  police  and  say,  '  Will  you  help  me 
to  find  the^  address  of  some  lodgings  where  an  actress  is 


132  LITTLE  WHITE  FROCK 

staying  ?  I  think  it's  somewhere  round  about  Clapham. 
I  don't  know  the  name  of  the  landlady,  or  the  name 
of  the  street,  or  the  number  ? '  They  would  have 
thought  I  was  mad.  Perhaps  I  was  mad.  Should  I 
go  back  to  Lucy  ?  The  child  wouldn't  know.  .  .  .  And 
all  this  time  Sophie  was  dying.  Ah !  merciful  God ! 
perhaps  she  would  die.  If  she  died  before  I  found 
her,  she  would  die  in  the  happy  belief  that  the  frock 
had  been  worn.  Her  last  hours  would  be  blessed  with 
dreams,  visions  of  purity  and  joy  .  .  .  whilst  I  ...  I 
should  have  no  place  in  them,  perhaps  .  .  .  but  I,  too, 
after  all,  I'd  suffered  for  her  sake.  Who  knows  ?  .  .  . 
Who  know  ...    ?  " 

His  voice  broke  off  in  a  low  sob.  I  leant  forward 
watching  his  face,  racked  with  anguish.  The  room  was 
extraordinarily  still.  ...  I  dared  not  look  at  Alice,  but 
I  was  conscious  of  the  pearly  sheen  of  her  frock  under 
the  lamp.  Away  in  the  distance  one  could  hear  the 
rumble  of  the  traffic  on  the  High-road.  The  remorse- 
less tick  of  the  clock  was  the  only  sound  in  the  room. 
Once  I  thought  it  ticked  louder,  and  then  I  realized 
that  it  was  some  one  tapping  gently  at  the  door.  The 
door  opened  a  little  way,  and  against  the  dim  light  in 
the  passage  appeared  the  gaunt  face  of  the  old  serving- 
woman,  phantom-like,  unreal.  .  .  . 

"  Excuse  me,  sir."  She  peered  into  the  room.  The 
old  actor  gazed  at  her  with  unseeing  eyes.  He  stood  with 
one  hand  on  tlie  back  of  the  chair,  and  across  the  other 
ann  lay  the  white  frock ;  a  dignified  and  pathetic  figure. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  trouble  you,  sir," 


LITTLE  WHITE  FROCK  133 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Windsor?" 

"  My  little  niece  'as  just  called.  I  can't  find  it  any- 
where —  that  little  frock  I  made  for  'er  last  week.  I 
put  it  in  the  chest.  I  thought  perhaps  you  might  'ave 
.  .  .  Oh !  there  it  is,  sir.  Do  you  mind  —  ?  Thank 
you  very  much,  sir.  I'm  sorry  to  have  disturbed  the 
company." 

In  the  sanctuary  of  our  bedroom  that  night,  my  wife 
said: 

"  Did  you  a-eally  believe  that  that  writing  on  the 
photograph  was  by  Henry  Irving  ?  " 

"  My  dear,"  I  answered,  "  Avhen  their  careers  are 
finished,  the  painter,  the  author,  the  architect  or  the 
sculptor  may  point  to  this  or  that,  and  say,  '  Lo !  this 
is  my  handiwork.'  But  to  the  actor  nothing  remains 
but  —  memories.  Their  permanence  lies  in  the  mem- 
ories of  those  who  loved  them.  Are  we  to  begiTidge 
them  all  the  riches  of  imagination  ?  After  all,  what  is 
the  line  of  demarcation  between  what  we  call  reality 
and  what  we  call  imagination  ?  Is  not  the  imagery  in- 
voked by  Shelley  when  he  sings  of  dubious  myths  as 
real  a  fact  as  the  steel  rivets  in  the  Forth  Bridge? 
What  is  reality  ?     Indeed,  what  is  life  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  life  is,"  answered  my  wife, 
switching  off  the  light.  "  But  I  know  what  you  are. 
You're  a  dear  old  —  perfect  old  —  BOOB  !  " 

"  Alice,  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  I  said. 

She  laughed  softly. 

"  Women  are  '  equipped,'  you  know,"  she  replied 
enigmatically,  and  insisted  on  going  to  sleep. 


A  GOOD  ACTION 


A  GOOD  ACTION 

IT  is  undoubtedly  tnie  that  the  majority  of  us  per- 
form the  majority  of  our  actions  through  what  are 
commonly  known  as  mixed  motives. 
It  would  certainly  have  been  quite  impossible  for  Mr. 
Edwin  Pothecary  to  analyze  the  concrete  impulse  which 
eventually  prompted  him  to  perform  his  good  action. 
It  may  have  been  a  natural  revolt  from  the  somewhat 
petty  and  cramped  punctilio  of  his  daily  life;  his  drab 
home  life,  the  bickering,  wearing,  grasping  routine  of 
the  existence  of  fish-and-chips  dispenser.  A  man  who 
earns  his  livelihood  by  buying  fish  and  potatoes  in 
the  cheapest  market,  and  selling  them  in  the  Waterloo 
Eoad  cannot  afford  to  indulge  his  altruistic  fancies  to 
any  lavish  extent.  It  is  true  that  the  business  of  Mr. 
Edwin  Pothecary  was  a  tolerably  successful  one  —  he 
employed  three  assistants  and  a  boy  named  Scales 
who  was  not  so  much  an  assistant  as  an  encumbrance 
and  wholesale  plate-smasher.  Mr.  Pothecary  engaged 
him  because  he  thought  his  name  seemed  appropriate  to 
the  fish-trade.  In  a  weak  moment  he  pandered  to  this 
sentimental  whim,  another  ingredient  in  the  strange 
composition  which  influences  us  to  do  this,  that,  and 
the  other.  But  it  was  not  by  pandering  to  whims  of 
this  nature  that  Mr.  Pothecary  had  built  up  this  pro- 

gi'essive  and  odoriferous  business  with   its  gay   shop 

137 


138  A  GOOD  ACTIOI^ 

front  of  blue  and  brown  tiles.  It  was  merely  a  minor 
lapse.  In  the  fish-and-cbip  trade  one  has  to  be  keen, 
pushful,  self-reliant,  ambidexterous,  a  student  of  human 
nature,  forbearing,  far-seeing,  imaginative,  courageous, 
something  of  a  controversialist  with  a  streak  of  fatalism 
as  pronounced  as  that  of  a  high-priest  in  a  Brahmin 
temple.  It  is  better,  moreover,  to  have  an  imperfect 
nasal  organism,  and  to  be  religious. 

Edwin  had  all  these  qualities.  Every  day  he  went 
from  Quince  Villa  at  Buffington  to  London  —  forty 
minutes  in  the  train  —  and  back  at  night.  On  Sunday 
he  took  the  wife  and  three  children  to  the  Methodist 
Chapel  at  the  comer  of  the  street  to  both  morning  and 
evening  services.  But  even  this  religious  observance 
does  not  give  us  a  complete  solution  for  the  sudden 
prompting  of  an  idea  to  do  a  good  action.  Edwin  had 
attended  chapel  for  fifty-two  years  and  such  an  impulse 
had  never  occurred  to  him  before.  He  may  possibly 
have  been  influenced  by  some  remark  of  the  preacher, 
or  was  it  that  twinge  of  gout  which  set  him  thinking 
of  the  unwritten  future  ?  Had  it  anything  to  do  with 
the  Boy-Scout  movement  ?  Some  one  at  some  time  had 
told  him  of  an  underlying  idea  —  that  every  day  in 
one's  life  one  should  do  one  pure,  good  and  unselfish 
action. 

Perhaps  after  all  it  was  all  due  to  the  gayety  of  a 
spring  morning.  Certain  it  is  that  as  he  swung  out  of 
the  garden  gate  on  that  morning  in  April  something 
stirred  in  him.  His  round  puffy  face  blinked  heaven- 
wards.    Almond  blossoms  fluttered  in  the  breeze  above 


A  GOOD  ACTION  139 

the  hedgerows.  Larks  were  singing.  .  .  .  Suddenly 
his  eye  alighted  upon  the  roof  of  the  Peels'  hen-house 
opposite  and  Mr.  Edwin  Pothecary  scowled.  Lord! 
How  he  hated  those  people!  The  Peels  were  Pothe- 
cary's  hetes-noires.     Snobs!     Pirates!     Rotters! 

The  Peels'  villa  was  at  least  three  times  as  big  as 
the  Pothecarys'.  It  was,  in  fact,  not  a  villa  at  all.  It 
was  a  "  Court  "  —  whatever  that  was.  It  was  quite 
detached,  with  about  fourteen  rooms  in  all,  a  coach- 
house, a  large  garden,  and  two  black  sheds  containing 
forty-five  fowls,  leading  an  intensive  existence.  The 
Pothecarys  had  five  fowls  which  sometimes  did  and 
sometimes  didn't  supply  them  with  two  or  three  eggs 
a  day,  but  it  was  known  that  the  Peels  sent  at  least  two 
hundred  and  fifty  eggs  to  market  every  week,  besides 
supplying  their  own  table.  Mr.  Peel  was  a  successful 
dealer  in  quills  and  bristles.  His  wife  was  the  daughter 
of  a  post  office  official  and  they  had  three  stuck  up 
daughters  who  would  have  no  truck  at  all  with  the 
Pothecarys.  You  may  appreciate  then  the  twinge  of 
venom  which  marked  the  face  of  Edwin  as  he  passed 
through  his  front  gate  and  observed  the  distant  roof 
of  the  Peels'  fowl-house.  And  still  the  almond  blos- 
soms nodded  at  him  above  the  hedge.  The  larks 
sang.  .  .  .  After  all,  was  it  fair  to  hate  any  one  because 
they  were  better  off  than  oneself?  Strange  how  these 
moods  obsess  one.  The  soft  air  caressed  Edwin's  cheek. 
Little  flecks  of  cloud  scudded  gayly  into  the  suburban 
panorama.  Small  green  shoots  were  appearing  every- 
where.    One  ought  not  to  hate  any  one  at  all  —  of 


140  A  GOOD  ACTION 

course.  It  is  absurd.  So  bad  for  oneself,  apart  from 
the  others.  One  ought  rather  to  be  kind,  forgiving, 
loving  all  mankind.  Was  that  a  lark  or  a  thrush? 
He  knew  little  about  birds.  Fish  now!  ...  A  not 
entirely  unsatisfactory  business  really  the  fried  fish 
trade  —  when  things  went  well.  When  customers  were 
numerous  and  not  too  cantankerous.  Quite  easy  to  run, 
profitable.  A  boy  came  singing  down  the  road.  The 
villas  clustered  together  more  socially.  There  was  a 
movement  of  spring  life.  .  .  . 

As  Edwin  turned  the  corner  of  the  Station  Road,  the 
impulse  crystallized.  One  good  action.  To-day  he 
would  perform  one  good,  kind,  unselfish,  unadvertised 
action.  'No  one  should  ever  know  of  it.  Just  one  to- 
day. Then  perhaps  one  to-morrow.  And  so  on;  in 
time  it  might  become  a  habit.  That  is  how  one  pro- 
gressed. He  took  his  seat  in  the  crowded  third-class 
smoker  and  pretended  to  read  his  newspaper,  but  his 
mind  was  too  actively  engaged  with  the  problems  of  his 
new  resolution.  How?  When?  Where?  How  does 
one  do  a  definitely  good  action  ?  What  is  the  best  way 
to  go  to  work  ?  One  could,  of  course,  just  quietly  slip 
some  money  into  a  poor-box  if  one  could  be  found. 
But  would  this  be  very  good  and  self-sacrificing  ?  Who 
gets  money  put  in  a  poor-box  ?  Surely  his  own  family 
were  poor  enough,  as  far  as  that  went.  But  he  couldn't 
go  back  home  and  give  his  wife  a  sovereign.  It  would 
be  advertising  his  charity,  and  he  would  look  silly  doing 
it.  His  business?  He  might  turn  up  and  say  to  his 
assistants:  "Boys,  you  shall  all  have  a  day's  holiday. 


A  GOOD  ACTION  141 

We'll  shut  up,  and  here's  your  pay  for  the  day."  Ad- 
vertising again ;  besides,  what  about  the  hundreds  of 
poor  workers  in  the  neighborhood  who  relied  for  their 
mid-day  sustenance  on  "  Pothecary's  Pride-of-the-Ocean 
Popular  Plaice  to  Eat  ?  "  It  would  be  cruel,  ciiiel  and 
—  bad  for  business  in  the  future.  The  public  would 
lose  confidence  in  that  splendid  gold-lettered  tablet  in 
the  window  which  said  "  Cod,  brill,  halibut,  plaice, 
pilchards  always  on  hand.  Eat  them  or  take  them 
away." 

The  latter  sentence  did  not  imply  that  if  you  took 
them  away  you  did  not  eat  them ;  it  simply  meant  that 
you  could  either  stand  at  the  counter  and  eat  them  from 
a  plate  with  the  aid  of  a  fork  and  your  fingers  (or  at 
one  of  the  wooden  benches  if  you  could  find  room  — 
an  unlikely  contingency,  alternatively  you  could 
wrap  them  up  in  a  piece  of  newspaper  and  devour  them 
without  a  fork  at  the  comer  of  the  street. 

No,  it  would  not  be  a  good  action  in  any  way  to 
close  the  Popular  Plaice  to  eat.  Edwin  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  to  perform  this  act  satisfactorily  it 
were  better  to  divorce  the  proceeding  entirely  from  any 
connection  with  home  or  business.  The  two  things 
didn't  harmonize.  A  good  action  must  be  a  special 
and  separate  effort  in  an  entirely  different  setting.  He 
would  take  the  day  off  himself  and  do  it  thoroughly. 

Mr.  Pothecary  was  known  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Waterloo  Road  as  "  The  Stinker,"  a  title  easily  earned 
by  the  peculiar  qualities  of  his  business  and  the  obvious 
additional  fact  that  a  Pothecary  was  a  chemist.     He 


142  A  GOOD  ACTION 

was  a  very  small  man,  bald-headed  with  yellowy-white 
side  whiskers,  a  blue  chin,  a  perambulating  nostril  with 
a  large  wart  on  the  port  side.  He  wore  a  square  bowler 
hat  which  seemed  to  thrust  out  the  protruding  flaps  of 
his  large  ears.  His  greeny-black  clothes  were  always 
too  large  for  him  and  ended  in  a  kind  of  thick  spiral 
above  his  square-toed  boots.  He  always  wore  a  flat 
white  collar  —  more  or  less  clean  —  and  no  tie.  This 
minor  defect  was  easily  atoned  for  by  a  heavy  silver 
chain  on  his  waistcoat  from  which  hung  gold  seals  and 
ribbons  connecting  with  watches,  knives,  and  all  kinds 
of  ingenious  appliances  in  his  waistcoat  pockets. 

The  noble  intention  of  his  day  was  a  little  chilled  on 
his  arrival  at  the  shop.  In  the  first  place,  although  cus- 
tomers were  then  arriving  for  breakfast,  the  boy  Scales 
was  slopping  water  over  the  front  step.  Having  se- 
verely casitigated  the  miscreant  youth  and  prophesied 
that  his  chances  of  happiness  in  the  life  to  come  were 
about  as  remote  as  those  of  a  dead  dog-fish  in  the  upper 
reaches  of  the  Thames,  he  made  his  way  through  the 
customers  to  the  room  at  the  back,  and  there  he  met 
Dolling. 

Dolling  was  Edwin's  manager,  and  he  cannot  be  over- 
looked. In  the  first  place,  he  was  remarkably  like  a  fish 
himself.  He  had  the  same  dull  expressionless  eyes  and 
the  drooping  mouth  and  drooping  mustache.  Every- 
thing about  him  drooped  and  dripped.  He  was  always 
wet.  He  wore  a  gray  flannel  shirt  and  no  collar  or  tie. 
His  braces,  trousers,  and  hair  all  seemed  the  same  color. 
He  hovered  in  the  background  with  a  knife,  and  did 


A  GOOD  ACTION  143 

the  cutting  up  and  dressing.  He  had,  moreover,  all  the 
taciturnity  of  a  fish,  and  its  peculiar  ability  for  getting 
out  of  a  difficulty.  He  never  spoke.  He  simply  looked 
lugubrious,  and  pointed  at  things  with  his  knife.  And 
yet  Edwin  knew  that  he  was  an  excellent  manager. 
For  it  must  be  observed  that  in  spite  of  the  gold-lettered 
board  outside  with  its  fanfare  of  cod,  brill,  halibut, 
plaice  and  pilchards,  whatever  the  customer  asked  for, 
by  the  time  it  had  passed  through  Boiling's  hand  it  was 
just  f.sli.  No  nonsense  about  it  at  all.  Just  plain 
fish  leveled  with  a  uniform  brovm  crust.  If  you  asked 
for  cod  you  got  jish.  If  you  asked  for  halibut  you  also 
got  fisJi.     Dolling  was  something  of  an  artist. 

On  this  particular  morning,  as  Edward  entered  the 
back  room,  Dolling  was  scratching  the  side  of  his  head 
with  the  knife  he  used  to  cut  up  the  fish ;  a  sure  sign 
that  he  was  perplexed  about  something.  It  was  not 
customary  to  exchange  greetings  in  this  business,  and 
when  he  observed  "  the  guv'nor  "  enter  he  just  withdrew 
the  knife  from  his  hair  and  pointed  it  at  a  packing  case 
on  the  side  table.  Edwin  knew  what  this  meant.  He 
went  up  and  pressed  his  flat  nose  against  the  chest  of 
what  looked  like  an  over-worked  amphibian  that  had 
been  turned  down  by  its  own  Trades  Union.  Edwin 
sneezed  before  he  had  had  time  to  withdraw  his  nose. 

"Yes,  that's  a  dud  lot,"  he  said.  And  then  sud- 
denly an  inspirational  moment  nearly  overwhelmed 
him.  Here  was  a  chance.  He  would  turn  to  Dolling 
and  say: 

"Dolling,   this  fish  is  slightly  tainted.     We  must 


144  A  GOOD  ACTION 

throw  it  away.  We  bought  it  at  our  risk.  Yesterday 
morning  when  it  arrived  it  was  just  all  right,  but  keep- 
ing it  in  that  hot  room  downstairs  where  you  and  your 
wife  sleep  has  probably  finished  it.  We  mustn't  give 
it  to  our  customers.  It  might  poison  them  —  ptomaine 
poison,  you  know  .  .  .  eh.  Dolling?  "  It  would  be  a 
good  action,  a  self-sacrificing  action,  eh  ?  But  when 
he  glanced  at  the  face  of  Dolling  he  knew  that  such 
an  explosion  would  be  unthinkable.  It  would  be  like 
telling  a  duck  it  mustn't  swim,  or  an  artist  that  he 
mustn't  paint,  or  a  boy  on  a  beach  that  he  mustn't 
throw  stones  in  the  sea.  It  was  the  kind  of  job  that 
Dolling  enjoyed.  In  the  course  of  a  few  hours  he 
knew  quite  well  that  whatever  he  said,  the  mysterious 
and  evil-smelling  monster  would  be  served  out  in  dainty 
parcels  of  halibut,  cod,  brill,  plaice,  etc. 

Business  was  no  place  for  a  good  action.  Too  many 
others  depended  on  it,  were  involved  in  it.  Edwin  went 
up  to  Dolling  and  shouted  in  his  ear  —  he  was  rather 
deaf: 

"  I'm  going  out.     I  may  not  be  back  to-day." 

Dolling  stared  at  the  wall.  He  appeared  about  as 
interested  in  the  statement  as  a  cod  might  be  that  had 
just  been  informed  that  a  Chinese  coolie  had  won  the 
Calcutta  sweep-stake.  Edwin  crept  out  of  the  shop 
abashed.  He  felt  horribly  uncomfortable.  He  heard 
some  one  mutter :  "  Where's  The  Stinker  off  to  ?  "  and 
he  realized  how  impossible  it  would  be  to  explain  to 
any  one  there  present  that  he  was  off  to  do  a  good  action. 

"  I  will  go  to  some  outlying  suburb,"  he  thought. 


A  GOOD  ACTION  145 

Once  outside  in  the  sunshine  he  tried  to  get  back  into 
the  benign  mood.  He  traveled  right  across  London  and 
made  for  Golders  Green  and  Heudon,  a  part  of  the  world 
foreign  to  him.  By  the  time  he  had  boarded  the 
Golders  Green  'bus  he  had  quite  recovered  himself.  It 
was  still  a  brilliant  day.  ''  The  better  the  day  the  better 
the  deed,"  he  thought  aptly.  He  hummed  inaudibly; 
that  is  to  say,  he  made  curious  crooning  noises  some- 
where behind  his  silver  chain  and  signets;  the  sound 
was  happily  suppressed  by  the  noise  of  the  'bus. 

It  seemed  a  very  long  journey.  It  was  just  as  they 
were  going  through  a  rather  squalid  district  near 
Cricklewood  that  the  golden  chance  occurred  to  him. 
The  fares  had  somewhat  thinned.  There  were  scarcely 
a  dozen  people  in  the  'bus.  Next  to  him  barely  a  yard 
away  he  observed  a  poor  woman  with  a  baby  in  her 
arms.  She  had  a  thin,  angular,  wasted  face,  and  her 
clothes  were  threadbare  but  neat.  A  poor,  thoroughly 
honest  and  deserving  creature,  making  a  bitter  fight  of 
it  against  the  buffets  of  a  cruel  world.  Edwin's  heart 
was  touched.  Here  was  his  chance.  He  noticed  that 
from  her  wrist  was  suspended  a  shabby  black  bag,  and 
the  bag  was  open.  He  would  slip  up  neai-  her  and  drop 
in  a  half-crown.  What  joy  and  rapture  when  she  ar- 
rived home  and  found  the  unexpected  treasure!  An 
unknown  benefactor !  Edwin  chuckled  and  wormed  his 
way  suiTeptitiously  along  the  seat.  Stealthily  he 
fingered  his  half-crown  and  hugged  it  in  the  palm  of 
his  left  hand.  His  heart  beat  with  the  excitement  of 
his  exploit.     He  looked  out  of  the  window  opposite  and 


146  A  GOOD  ACTION" 

fumbled  his  hand  towards  the  opening  in  the  bag.  He 
touched  it.     Suddenly  a  sharp  voice  rang  out: 

"  That  man's  picking  your  pocket !  " 

An  excited  individual  opposite  was  pointing  at  him. 
The  woman  uttered  an  exclamation  and  snatched  at  her 
bag.  The  baby  cried.  The  conductor  rang  the  bell. 
Every  one  seemed  to  be  closing  in  on  Edwin.  In- 
stinctively he  snatched  his  hand  away  and  thrust  it  in 
his  pocket  (the  most  foolish  thing  he  could  have  done). 
Every  one  was  talking.  A  calm  muscular-looking  gen- 
tleman who  had  not  spoken  seized  Edwin  by  the  wrist 
and  said  calmly: 

"  Look  in  your  bag,  Madam,  and  see  whether  he  has 
taken  anything." 

The  'bus  came  to  a  halt.     Edwin  muttered : 

"  I  assure  you  —  nothing  of  the  sort  —  " 

How  could  he  possibly  explain  that  he  was  doing  just 
the  opposite  ?  Would  a  single  person  believe  a  word  of 
his  yam  about  the  half-crown?  The  woman  whim- 
pered : 

"  ISTo,  'e  ain't  taken  nothin',  bad  luck  to  'im.  There 
was  only  four  pennies  and  a  'alfpenny  anyway.  Dirty 
thief!" 

"Are  you  goin'  to  give  'im  in  charge?"  asked  the 
conductor. 

"  Yer  can't  if  'e  ain't  actually  taken  nothin',  can 
yer  ?  The  dirty  thievin'  swine  try  in'  to  rob  a  'ard 
workin'  'onest  woman !  " 

"  I  wasn't !  I  wasn't !  "  feebly  spluttered  Edwin, 
blushing  a  ripe  beetroot  color. 


A  GOOD  ACTION  147 

"  Shame !  Shame !  Chuck  'im  off  the  'bus !  Dirty 
sneak !  Call  a  copper !  "  were  some  of  the  remarks 
being  hurled  about. 

The  conductor  was  losing  time  and  patience.  He 
beckoned  vigorously  to  Edwin  and  said: 

"  Come  on,  off  you  go !  " 

There  was  no  appeal.  He  got  up  and  slunk  out. 
Popular  opinion  was  too  strong  against  him.  As  he 
stepped  off  the  back  board,  the  conductor  gave  him  a 
parting  kick  which  sent  him  flying  on  to  the  pavement. 
It  was  an  operation  received  with  shrieks  of  laughter 
and  a  round  of  applause  from  the  occupants  of  the 
vehicle,  taken  up  by  a  small  band  of  other  people  who 
had  been  attracted  by  the  disturbance.  He  darted  down 
a  back  street  to  the  accompaniment  of  boos  and  jeers. 

It  says  something  for  Edwin  Pothecary  that  this 
unfortunate  rebuff  to  his  first  attempt  to  do  a  good 
action  did  not  send  him  helter-skelter  back  to  the  fried 
fish  shop  in  the  Waterloo  Road.  He  felt  crumpled, 
bruised,  mortified,  disappointed,  discouraged;  but  is 
not  the  path  of  all  martyrs  and  reformers  strewn  with 
similar  debris  ?  Are  not  all  really  disinterested  actions 
liable  to  misconstruction  ?  He  went  into  a  dairy  and 
partook  of  a  glass  of  milk  and  a  bun.  Then  he  started 
out  again.  He  would  see  more  rural,  less  sophisticated 
people.  In  the  country  there  must  be  simple,  kindly 
people,  needing  his  help.  He  walked  for  several  hours 
with  but  a  vague  sense  of  direction.  At  last  he  came 
to  a  public  park.  A  group  of  dirty  boys  were  seated 
on  the  grass.     They  were  apparently  having  a  banquet. 


148  A  GOOD  ACTION 

They  did  not  seem  to  require  liim.  He  passed  on,  and 
came  to  an  enclosure.  Suddenly  between  some  rhodo- 
dendron bushes  he  looked  into  a  small  dell.  On  a 
seat  by  himself  was  an  elderly  man  in  a  shabby  suit. 
He  looked  the  picture  of  misery  and  distress.  His 
hands  were  resting  on  his  knees,  and  his  eyes  were 
fixed  in  a  melancholy  scrutiny  on  the  ground.  It  was 
obvious  that  some  great  trouble  obsessed  him.  He  was 
as  still  as  a  shadow.  It  was  the  figure  of  a  man  lost 
in  the  past  or  —  contemplating  suicide  ?  Edwin's 
breath  came  quickly.  He  made  his  way  to  him.  In 
order  to  do  this  it  was  necessary  to  climb  a  railing. 
There  was  probably  another  way  round,  but  was  there 
time?  At  any  minute  there  might  be  a  sudden  move- 
ment, the  crack  of  a  revolver.  Edwin  tore  his  trousers 
and  scratched  his  forearm,  but  he  managed  to  enter  the 
dell  unobserved.  He  approached  the  seat.  The  man 
never  looked  up.  Then  Edwin  said  with  sympathetic 
tears  in  his  voice: 

"  My  poor  fellow,  may  I  be  of  any  assistance  —  ?  " 

There  was  a  disconcerting  jar.  The  melancholy  indi- 
vidual started  and  turned  on  him  angrily : 

"  Blast  you !  I'd  nearly  got  it !  What  the  devil  are 
you  doing  here?" 

And  without  waiting  for  an  answer  he  darted  away 
among  the  trees.  At  the  same  time  a  voice  called  over 
the  park  railings : 

"  Ho !  you,  there,  what  are  you  doing  over  there  ? 
You  come  back  the  way  you  came.     I  saw  yer." 

The  burly  figure  of  a  park-keeper  with  gaiters  and 


A  GOOD  ACTIOi^  149 

stout  stick  beckoned  him.  Edwin  got  up  and  clambered 
back  again,  scratching  his  arm. 

"  Xow  then/'  said  the  keeper.  "  Kame,  address,  age, 
and  occupation,  if  you  please." 

"  I  was  only  —  "  began  Edwin.  But  what  was  he 
only  doing?  Could  he  explain  to  a  park-keeper  that 
he  was  only  about  to  do  a  kind  action  to  a  poor  man  ? 
He  spluttered  and  gave  his  name,  address,  age,  and 
occupation. 

"  Oh,"  exclaimed  the  keeper.  "  Fried  fish,  eh  ?  And 
what  were  you  trying  to  do?  Get  orders?  Or  were 
you  begging  from  his  lordship?  " 

"His  lordship?" 

"  That  man  you  was  speaking  to  was  Lord  Budleigh- 
Salterton,  the  great  scientist.  lie's  thinkin'  out  'is  great 
invention,  otherwise  I'd  go  and  ask  ^im  if  'e  wanted  to 
prosecute  yer  for  being  in  'is  park  on  felonious  intent 
or  what." 

"  I  assure  you  —  "  stammered  Mr.  Pothecary. 

The  park-keeper  saw  him  well  off  the  premises,  and 
gave  him  much  gratuitous  advice  about  his  future  be- 
havior, darkened  with  melancholy  prophecies  regarding 
the  would-be  felon's  strength  of  character  to  live  up  to  it. 

Leaving  the  park  he  struck  out  towards  the  more 
rural  neighlwrhood.  He  calculated  that  he  must  be 
somewhere  in  the  neighborhood  of  Hendon.  At  the 
end  of  a  lane  he  met  a  sallow-faced  young  man  walking 
rapidly.  His  eyes  were  bloodshot  and  restless.  He 
glanced  at  Edwin  and  stopped. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  he  said.  , 


150  A  GOOD  ACTION 

Edwin  drew  himself  to  attention.  The  young  man 
looked  up  and  down  nervously.  He  was  obviously  in  a 
great  state  of  distress. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"I  —  I  —  h-hardly  like  to  ask  you,  sir,  I  — " 

He  stammered  shockingly.  Edwin  turned  on  his 
most  sympathetic  manner. 

"  You  are  suffering.     What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Sh-Sh-Shell-shock,  shir." 

"Ah!" 

At  last!  Some  heroic  reflex  of  the  war  darted 
through  Edwin's  mind.  Here  was  his  real  chance  at 
last.  A  poor  fellow  broken  by  the  war  and  in  need, 
neglected  by  an  ungrateful  country.  Almost  hidden  by 
his  outer  coat  he  observed  one  of  those  little  strips  of 
colored  ribbon,  which  implied  more  than  one  campaign. 

"  Where  did  you  meet  your  trouble  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  P  —  P  —  P-Palestine,  sir,  capturing  a  T-T-Turkish 
redoubt.  I  was  through  Gallipoli,  too,  sir,  but  I  won't 
d-d-distress  you.  I  am  in  a  —  in  a  —  hospital  at  St. 
Albans,  came  to  see  my  g-g-g-girl,  but  she's  g-g-g-gone 
—  v-v-vanished.  .  .  ." 

"  You  don't  say  so !  " 

"  T-t-trouble  is  I  1-1-1-lost  my  p-pass  back.  N-not 
quite  enough  m-mon  —  " 

"  Dear  me !     How  much  short  are  you  ?  " 

"  S-S-S-Six  shill  —     S-S-S-Six  —  " 

"  Six  shillings  ?  Well,  I'm  very  sorry.  Look  here, 
my  good  fellow,  here's  seven-and-sixpence  and  God  bless 
you !  " 


A  GOOD  ACTION  151 

"  T-T-thank  you  very  much,  sir.  W-will  you  give  me 
your  n-name  and  —  " 

"  No,  no,  no,  that's  quite  all  right.  I'm  very  pleased 
to  be  of  assistance.     Please  forget  all  about  it.''' 

He  pressed  the  soldier's  hand  and  hurried  on.  It 
was  done.  He  had  performed  a  kind,  unselfish  action 
and  no  one  should  ever  hear  of  it.  Mr.  Pothecary's 
eyes  glowed  with  satisfaction.  Poor  fellow !  even  if  the 
story  were  slightly  exaggerated,  what  did  it  matter? 
He  was  obviously  a  discharged  soldier,  ill,  and  in  need. 
The  seven-and-sixpence  would  make  an  enormous  differ- 
ence. He  would  always  cherish  the  memory  of  his 
kind,  unkno\vn  benefactor.  It  was  a  glorious  sensa- 
tion! Why  had  he  never  thought  of  doing  a  kindly 
act?  It  was  inspiring,  illuminating,  almost  intoxicat- 
ing !  He  recalled  with  zest  the  delirious  feeling  which 
ran  through  him  when  he  said,  "  No,  no,  no !  "  He 
would  not  give  his  name.  He  was  the  good  Samaritan, 
a  ship  passing  in  the  night.  And  now  he  would  be 
able  to  go  home,  or  go  back  to  his  business.  He  swung 
down  the  lane,  singing  to  himself.  As  he  turned  the 
comer  he  came  to  a  low  bungalow-building.  It  was 
in  a  rather  deserted  spot.  It  had  a  board  outside  which 
announced  "  Tea,  cocoa,  light  refreshments.  Cyclists 
catered  for." 

It  was  past  mid-day,  and  although  tea  and  cocoa  had 
never  made  any  great  appeal  to  the  gastronomic  fancies 
of  Edwin  Pothecary,  he  felt  in  his  present  spiritually 
elevated  mood  that  here  was  a  suitable  spot  for  a  well- 
merited  rest  and  lunch. 


1.52  A  GOOD  ACTION 

He  entered  a  deserted  room,  filled  with  light  oak 
chairs,  and  tables  with  green-tiled  tops  on  which  were 
placed  tin  vases  containing  dried  ferns.  A  few  blue- 
bottles darted  away  from  the  tortuous  remains  of  what 
had  once  apparently  been  a  ham,  lurking  behind  tall 
bottles  of  sweets  on  the  counter.  The  room  smelt  of 
soda  and  pickles.  Edwin  rapped  on  the  table  for  some 
time,  but  no  one  came.  At  last  a  woman  entered  from 
the  front  door  leading  to  the  garden.  She  was  fat  and 
out  of  breath. 

Edwin  coughed  and  said: 

"  Good-mornin',  madam.  May  I  have  a  bite  of  some- 
thin'  ?  " 

The  woman  looked  at  him  and  continued  panting. 
When  her  pulmonary  contortions  had  somewhat  sub- 
sided she  said: 

"  I  s'pose  you  'aven't  seen  a  pale  young  man  up  the 
lane?" 

It  was  difficult  to  know  what  made  him  do  it,  but 
Edwin  lied.     He  said : 

"  Ko." 

"  Oh !  "  she  replied.  "  I  don't  know  where  'e's  got 
to.  'E's  not  s'posed  to  go  out  of  the  garden.  'E's 
been  ill,  you  know." 

"Eeally!" 

"  'E's  my  nefyer,  but  I  can't  always  keep  an  eye  on 
'im.  'E's  a  bright  one,  'e  is.  I  shall  'ave  'im  sent 
back  to  the  'ome." 

"  Ah,  poor  fellow  !  I  suppose  he  was  —  injured  in 
the  war  ?  " 


A  GOOD  ACTION  153 

"War!"  The  plump  lady  snorted.  She  became 
almost  aggressive  and  confidential.  She  came  close  up 
to  Edwin  and  shook  her  finger  backwards  and  forwards 
in  front  of  his  eyes. 

"  I'll  tell  yer  'ow  much  war  'e  done.  When  they 
talked  about  conscription,  'e  got  that  frightened,  'e 
went  out  every  day  and  tried  to  drink  himself  from  a 
Al  man  into  a  C  III  man,  and  by  God !  'e  succeeded." 

"  You  don't  say  so !  " 

"  I  do  say  so.  And  more.  When  'is  turn  came,  'e 
was  in  the  'orspital  with  Delirious  Trimmings." 

"My  God!" 

"  'E's  only  just  come  out.  'E's  all  right  as  long  as  'e 
don't  get  'old  of  a  little  money." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  If  'e  can  get  'old  of  the  price  of  a  few  whiskies, 
'e'll  'ave  another  attack  come  on !  What  are  yer  goin' 
ter  'ave  —  tea  or  cocoa  ?  " 

"  I  must  go !  I  must  go !  "  exclaimed  the  only  cus- 
tomer Mrs.  Boggins  had  had  for  two  days,  and  gripping 
his  umbrella  he  dashed  out  of  the  shop. 

"  Good  Lord !  there's  another  one  got  'em !  "  ejacu- 
lated the  good  landlady.  "  I  wonder  whether  'e  pinched 
anything  while  I  was  out?  'Ere!  Come  back,  you 
dirty  little  bow-legged  swipe !  " 

But  Mr.  Pothecary  was  racing  down  the  lane,  mutter- 
ing to  himself :  "  Yes,  that  was  a  good  action !  A  very 
good  action  indeed  !  " 

A  mile  further  on  he  came  to  a  straggling  village, 
a  forlorn  unkempt  spot,  only  relieved  by  a  gaudy  inn 


154  A  GOOD  ACTION 

called  "  The  Two  Tumblers."  Edwin  staggered  into  the 
private  bar  and  drank  two  pints  of  Government  ale  and 
a  double  gin  as  the  liquid  accompaniment  to  a  hunk 
of  bread  and  cheese. 

It  was  not  tiU  he  had  lighted  his  pipe  after  the 
negotiation  of  these  delicacies  that  he  could  again  focus 
his  philosophical  outlook.  Then  he  thought  to  himself : 
"  It's  a  rum  thing  'ow  difficult  it  is  to  do  a  good  action. 
You'd  think  it  'd  be  dead  easy,  but  everythin'  seems 
against  yer.  One  must  be  able  to  do  it  somewhere. 
P'raps  one  ought  to  go  abroad,  among  foreigners  and 
black  men.  That's  it !  That's  why  all  these  'ere  Bible 
Society  people  go  out  among  black  people,  Chinese  and 
so  on.     They  find  there's  nothin'  doin'  over  'ere." 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  beer  and  gin  it  is  highly 
probable  that  Edwin  would  have  given  up  the  project, 
and  have  returned  to  fish  and  chips.  But  lying  back 
in  a  comfortable  seat  in  "  The  Two  Tumblers "  his 
thoughts  mellowed.  He  felt  broad-minded,  comfort- 
able, tolerant  .  .  .  one  had  to  make  allowances.  There 
must  be  all  sorts  of  ways.  Money  wasn't  the  only 
thing.  Besides,  he  was  spending  too  much.  He 
couldn't  afford  to  go  on  throwing  away  seven-and-six- 
pences.  One  must  be  able  to  help  people  —  by  helping 
them.  Doing  things  for  them  which  didn't  cost  money. 
He  thought  of  Sir  Walter  Baleigh  throwing  down  his 
cloak  for  Queen  Elizabeth  to  walk  over.  Romantic  but 
—  extravagant  and  silly,  really  a  shrewd  political  move, 
no  doubt;  not  a  good  action  at  all.  If  he  met  an  ill- 
clad  tramp  he  could  take  off  his  coat  and  wrap  round 


A  GOOD  ACTION  155 

his  shoulders  and  then  —  ?  Walk  home  to  Quince 
Villa  in  his  braces  ?  Wliat  would  Mrs.  Pothecarv  have 
to  say  ?  Phew !  One  could  save  people  from  drown- 
ing, but  he  didn't  know  how  to  swim.  Fire!  Per- 
haps there  would  be  a  fire.  lie  could  swann  up  a  ladder 
and  save  a  woman  from  the  top  bedroom  window. 
Heroic,  but  hardly  inconspicuous ;  not  exactly  what  he 
had  meant.  Besides,  the  firemen  would  never  let  him ; 
they  always  kept  these  showy  stunts  for  themselves. 
There  miist  be  something.  .  .  . 

He  walked  out  of  "  The  Two  Tumblers." 
Crossing  the  road,  he  took  a  turning  off  the  High 
Street.  He  saw  a  heavily-built  woman  carrying  a 
basket  of  washing.  He  hurried  after  her,  and  raising 
his  hat,  said :  "  Excuse  me,  madam,  may  I  carry  your 
basket  for  you  ?  " 

She  turned  on  him  suspiciously  and  glared: 
"  No,  thanks,  Mr.  Bottle-nose.     I've  'ad  some  of  that 
before.     You  'op  it!     Mrs.  Jaggs  'ad  'ers  pinched  last 
week  that  way." 

"  Of  course,"  he  thought  to  himself  as  he  hurried 
away.  "  The  trouble  is  I'm  not  dressed  for  the  part. 
A  bloomin'  swell  can  go  about  doin'  good  actions  all  day 
and  not  arouse  suspicions.  If  I  try  and  'elp  a  girl  off 
a, tram-car  I  get  my  face  slapped." 

Mr.  Pothecary  was  learning.  He  was  becoming  a 
complete  philosopher,  but  it  was  not  till  late  in  the 
afternoon  that  he  suddenly  realized  that  patience  and 
industry  are  always  rewarded.  He  was  appealed  to  by 
a  maiden  in  distress. 


156  A  GOOD  ACTION" 

It  came  about  in  this  way.  He  found  the  atmos- 
phere of  Northern  London  entirely  unsympathetic  to 
good  deeds.  All  his  action  appeared  suspect.  He  be- 
gan to  feel  at  last  like  a  criminal.  He  was  convinced 
that  he  was  being  watched  and  followed.  Once  he 
patted  a  little  girl's  head  in  a  paternal  manner.  Imme- 
diately a  woman  appeared  at  a  doorway  and  bawled  out : 

"  'Ere,  Lizzie,  you  come  inside !  " 

At  length  in  disgust  he  boarded  a  south-bound  'bus. 
He  decided  to  experiment  nearer  home.  He  went  to 
the  terminus  and  took  a  train  to  the  station  just  before 
his  own.  It  was  a  small  town  called  Uplingham.  This 
should  be  the  last  dance  of  the  moral  philanderer.  If 
there  was  no  one  in  Uplingham  upon  whom  he  could 
perform  a  good  action,  he  would  just  walk  home  — 
barely  two  miles  —  and  go  to  bed  and  forget  all  about 
it.  To-morrow  he  would  return  to  Fish-and-chips,  and 
the  normal  behavior  of  the  normal  citizen. 

Uplingham  was  a  dismal  little  town,  consisting 
mostly  of  churches,  chapels  and  pubs,  and  apparently 
quite  deserted.  As  Edwin  wandered  through  it  there 
crept  over  him  a  sneaking  feeling  of  relief.  If  he 
met  no  one  —  well,  there  it  was,  he  had  done  his  best ; 
and  he  could  go  home  with  a  clear  conscience.  After 
all  it  was  the  spirit  that  counted  in  these  things.  .  .  . 

"  0-o-oh !  " 

He  was  passing  a  small  stone  church,  standing  back 
on  a  little  frequented  lane.  The  maiden  was  seated 
alone  in  the  porch  and  she  was  crying.  Edwin  bustled 
through  the  gate  and  as  he  approached  her  he  had  time 


A  GOOD  ACTION  157 

to  observe  that  she  was  young,  quietly  dressed,  and  dis- 
tinctly pretty. 

"  You  are  in  trouble,"  he  said  in  his  most  feeling 
manner. 

She  looked  up  at  him  quickly,  and  dabbed  her  eyes. 

"  I've  lost  my  baby !     I've  lost  my  baby !  "  she  cried. 

"Dear,  dear,  that's  very  unfortunate!  How  did  it 
happen  ? " 

She  pointed  at  an  empty  perambulator  in  the  porch. 

"  I  waited  an  hour  here  for  my  friends  and  husband 
and  the  clergyman.  My  baby  was  to  be  christened." 
She  gasped  incoherently.  "  No  one  turned  up.  I  went 
across  to  the  Vicarage.  The  Vicar  was  away.  I  be- 
lieve I  ought  to  have  gone  to  St.  Bride's.  This  is  St. 
Paul's.  They  didn't  know  anything  about  it.  They 
say  people  often  make  that  mistake.  "When  I  got  back 
the  baby  was  gone.     0-o-o-oh !  " 

"  There,  there,  don't  cry,"  said  Mr.  Pothecary. 
"  Now  I'll  go  over  to  St.  Bride's  and  find  out  about  it." 

"  Oh,  sir,  do  you  mind  waiting  here  with  the  peram- 
bulator while  I  go?  I  want  my  baby.  I  want  my 
baby." 

"  Why,  yes,  of  course,  of  course." 

She  dashed  up  the  lane  and  left  Mr.  Pothecary  in 
charge  of  an  empty  perambulator.  In  fifteen  minutes' 
time  a  thick-set  young  man  came  hurrying  up  to  the 
porch.  He  looked  at  Edwin  and  pointing  to  the  peram- 
bulator said: 

"  Is  this  Mrs.  Frank's  or  Mrs.  Fred's  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Edwin,  rather  testily. 


158  A  GOOD  ACTION 

"  You  don't  know !  But  you're  old  Binns,  ain't 
you?" 

"  No,  I'm  not." 

The  young  man  looked  at  him  searchingly  and  then 
disappeared.  Ten  minutes  elapsed  and  then  a  small 
boy  rode  up  on  a  bicycle.     He  was  also  out  of  breath. 

"  Has  Mrs.  George  been  'ere  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Edwin. 

"  Mr.  Henderson  says  he's  awfully  sorry  but  he 
won't  be  able  to  get  away.  You  are  to  kiss  the  baby 
for  'im." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  it." 

"This  is  St.  Bride's,  isn't  it?" 

"  No,  this  is  St.  Paul's." 

"  Oh !  "  The  boy  leapt  on  to  the  bicycle  and  also 
vanished. 

"  This  is  absurd,"  thought  Edwin.  "  Of  course,  the 
whole  thing  is  as  plain  as  daylight.  The  poor  girl  has 
come  to  the  wrong  church.  The  whole  party  is  at  St. 
Bride's,  somebody  must  have  taken  the  baby  on  there. 
I  might  as  well  take  the  perambulator  along.  They'll 
be  pleased.     Now  I  wonder  which  is  the  way." 

He  wheeled  the  perambulator  into  the  lane.  There 
was  no  one  about  to  ask.  He  progressed  nearly  two 
hundred  yards  till  he  came  to  a  field  with  a  pond  in  it. 
This  was  apparently  the  wrong  direction.  He  was  star- 
ing about  when  he  suddenly  became  aware  of  a  hue  and 
cry.  A  party  of  people  came  racing  down  the  lane 
headed  by  the  thick-set  man,  who  was  exclaiming: 

"  There  he  is !     There  he  is !  " 


A  GOOD  ACTION  159 

Edwin  felt  his  heart  beating.  This  was  going  to  be  a 
little  embarrassing.  Thej  closed  on  him.  The  thick- 
set man  seized  his  wrists  and  at  the  same  time  re- 
marked : 

"  See  he  hasn't  any  firearms  on  him,  Frank." 

The  large  man  alluded  to  as  Frank  gripped  him  from 
behind. 

"  What  have  you  done  with  my  baby  ?  "  he  demanded 
fiercely. 

"  I  'aven't  seen  no  baby,"  yelped  Mr.  Pothecary. 

"  Oh !  'Aven't  yer !  What  are  yer  doin'  with  my 
perambulator  then  ?  " 

"  I'm  takin'  it  to  St.  Bride's  Church." 

"  Goin'  in  the  opposite  direction." 

"  I  didn't  know  the  way." 

"  Wliere's  the  babv  ?  " 

"  I  'aven't  seen  it.  I  tell  yer.  The  mother  said  she'd 
lost  it." 

"  What  the  hell !  Do  you  know  the  mother's  in  bed 
sick  ?  You're  a  liar,  my  man,  and  we're  goin'  to  take 
you  in  charge.  If  you've  done  anything  to  my  baby 
I'll  kill  you  with  my  hands." 

"  That's  it,  Frank.  Let  'im  'ave  it.  Throw  'im  in 
the  pond !  " 

"  I  tell  yer  I  don't  know  anythin'  about  it  all,  with 
yer  Franks,  Freds  and  Georges !  Go  to  the  devil,  all  of 
yer!" 

In  spite  of  his  protestations,  some  one  produced  a 
rope  and  they  handcuffed  him  and  tied  him  to  the  gate 
of  the  field.     A  small  crowd  had  collected  and  began 


160  A  GOOD  ACTIOIT 

to  boo  and  jeer.  A  man  from  a  cottage  hard  by  pro- 
duced a  drag,  and  between  them  they  dragged  the  pond, 
as  the  general  belief  was  that  Edwin  had  tied  a  stone 
to  the  baby  and  thrown  it  in  and  was  then  just  about  to 
make  off. 

The  uproar  continued  for  some  time,  mud  and  stones 
being  thrown  about  rather  carelessly. 

The  crowd  became  impatient  that  no  baby  was  found 
in  the  pond.  At  length  another  man  turned  up  on  a 
bicycle  and  called  out : 

"What  are  you  doing,  Frank?  You've  missed  the 
christening !  " 

"  What !  " 

"  Old  Binns  turned  up  with  the  nipper  all  right. 
He'd  come  round  the  wrong  way." 

The  crowd  was  obviously  disappointed  at  the  release 
of  Edwin,  and  the  father's  only  solatium  was: 

"  Well,  it's  lucky  for  you,  old  bird !  " 

He  and  his  friends  trundled  the  perambulator  away 
rapidly  across  the  fields.  Edwin  had  hardly  time  to 
give  a  sigh  of  relief  before  he  found  himself  the  center 
of  a  fresh  disturbance.  He  was  approaching  the  church 
when  another  crowd  assailed  him,  headed  by  the  for- 
lorn maiden.  She  was  still  in  a  state  of  distress,  but 
she  was  hugging  a  baby  to  her. 

"  Ah  !  You've  found  the  baby !  "  exclaimed  Edwin, 
trying  to  be  amiable. 

"  Where  is  the  perambulator  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"  Your  'usband  'as  taken  it  away,  madam.  He 
seemed  to  think  I  — " 


A  GOOD  ACTION  IGl 

A  tall  frig-id  young  man  stepped  forward  and  said : 

"Excuse  me,  I  am  the  lady's  husband.  Will  you 
please  explain  yourself  ?  " 

Then  Edwin  lost  his  temper. 

"  Well,  damn  it,  I  don't  know  who  you  all  are !  " 

"  The  case  is  quite  clear.  You  volunteered  to  take 
charge  of  the  perambulator  while  my  wife  was  absent. 
On  her  return  you  announce  that  it  is  spirited  away.  I 
shall  hold  you  responsible  for  the  entire  cost  —  nearly 
ten  pounds." 

"  Make  it  a  thousand/'  roared  Edwin.  "  I'm  'aving 
a  nice  cheap  day." 

"  I  don't  wish  for  any  more  of  your  insolence,  either. 
My  wife  has  had  a  very  trying  experience.  The  baby 
has  been  christened  Fred." 

"  Well,  what's  the  matter  with  that  ?  '^ 

"  ISTothing,"  screamed  the  mother.  "  Only  that  it  is 
a  girl!  It's  a  girl  and  it  has  been  duly  christened 
Fred  in  a  Christian  church.,  Oh !  there's  been  an 
aAvful  muddle." 

"  It's  not  this  old  fool's  fault,"  interpolated  the  el- 
derly woman  quietly.  "  You  see,  Mrs.  Frank  and  Mrs. 
Fred  Smith  were  both  going  to  have  their  babies  chris- 
tened to-day.  Only  Mrs.  Frank  was  took  sick,  and 
sent  me  along  with  the  child.  I  went  to  the  wrong 
church  and  thinkin'  there  was  some  mistake,  went  back 
home.  Mrs.  Frank's  baby's  never  been  christened  at 
all.  In  the  meantime,  the  ceremony  was  ready  to  start 
at  St.  Paul's  and  Frank  'isself  was  there.  Ko  baby. 
They  sends  old  Binns  to  scout  around  at  other  churches. 


162  A  GOOD  ACTION 

People  do  make  mistakes  —  finds  this  good  lady's  child 
all  primed  up  for  christening  in  the  church  door,  and 
no  one  near,  carries  it  off.  In  the  meantime,  the  father 
had  gone  on  the  ramp.  It's  him  that  probably  went  off 
with  the  perambulator  and  trounced  you  up  a  bit,  old 
sport.  It'll  learn  you  not  to  interfere  so  much  in  fu- 
ture perhaps." 

"  And  the  baby's  christened  Fred ! "  wailed  the 
mother.  "  My  baby !  My  Gwendoline !  "  And  she 
looked  at  Edwin  with  bitter  recrimination  in  her  eyes. 

There  was  still  a  small  crowd  following  and  boys 
were  jeering,  and  a  fox-terrier,  getting  very  excited, 
jumped  up  and  bit  Mr.  Pothecary  through  the  seat  of 
his  trousers.  He  struck  at  it  with  his  stick,  and  hit  a 
small  boy,  whose  mother  happened  to  be  present.  The 
good  lady  immediately  entered  the  lists. 

"  Baby-killer.  .  .  .  Hun !  "  were  the  last  words  he 
heard  as  he  was  chased  up  the  street  and  across  the 
fields  in  the  direction  of  his  own  village. 

Wlien  he  arrived  it  was  nearly  dark.  Mr.  Pothecary 
was  tired,  dirty,  battered,  torn,  outraged,  bruised  and 
hatless.  And  his  spirit  hardened.  The  forces  of  re- 
action surged  through  him.  He  was  done  with  good 
actions.  He  felt  vindictive,  spiteful,  wicked.  Slowly 
he  took  the  last  turning  and  his  eye  once  more  alighted 
on  —  the  Peels's  fowl  house. 

And  there  came  to  him  a  vague  desire  to  end  his  day 
by  performing  some  action  the  contraiy  to  good,  some- 
thing spiteful,  petty,  malign.  His  soul  demanded  some 
recompense  for  its  abortive  energies.     And  then  he  re- 


A  GOOD  ACTION  163 

membercd  that  the  Peels  were  away.  They  were  re- 
turnin<2:  late  that  evening.  The  two  intensive  fowl- 
houses  were  at  the  end  of  the  kitchen  garden,  where  all 
the  young  spring  cabbages  and  peas  had  just  been 
planted.  They  could  be  approached  between  a  slit  in 
the  narrow  black  fence  adjacent  to  a  turnip  field. 
Rather  a  long  way  round.  A  simple  and  rather  futile 
plan  sprang  into  his  mind,  but  he  was  too  tired  to  think 
of  anything  more  criminal  or  diabolic. 

He  would  creep  round  to  the  back,  get  through  the 
fence,  force  his  way  into  the  fowl-house.  Then  he 
would  kick  out  all  those  expensive  Rhode  Island  pam- 
pered hens  and  lock  them  out.  Inside  he  would  upset 
everything  and  smash  the  place  to  pieces.  The  fowls 
would  get  all  over  the  place.  They  would  eat  the  young 
vegetables.  Some  of  them  would  get  lost,  stolen  by 
gypsies,  killod  by  rats.  What  did  he  care?  The  Peels 
would  probably  not  discover  the  outrage  till  the  mor- 
row, and  they  would  never  know  who  did  it.  Edwin 
chuckled  inwardly,  and  rolled  his  eyes  like  the  smooth 
villain  of  a  fit-up  melodrama.  He  glanced  up  and 
down  to  see  that  no  one  was  looking,  then  he  got  across 
a  gate  and  entered  the  turnip  field. 

Within  five  minutes  he  was  forcing  the  door  of  the 
fowl-house  with  a  spade.  The  fowls  were  already  set- 
tling down  for  the  night,  and  they  clucked  rather  alarm- 
ingly, but  Edwin's  blood  was  up.  He  chased  them  all 
out,  forty-five  of  them,  and  made  savage  lunges  at  them 
with  his  feet.  Then  he  upset  all  the  com  he  could 
find,  and  poured  water  on  it  and  jumped  on  it.     He 


164  A  GOOD  ACTION" 

smashed  the  complicated  invention  suspended  from  the 
ceiling,  whereby  the  fowls  had  to  reach  up  and  get  one 
grain  of  com  at  a  time.  To  his  joy  he  found  a  pot  of 
green  paint,  which  he  flung  promiscuously  over  the 
walls  and  floor  (and  incidentally  his  clothes). 

Then  he  crept  out  and  bolted  both  of  the  doors. 

The  sleepy  creatures  were  standing  about  outside, 
some  feebly  pecking  about  on  the  ground.  He  chased 
them  through  into  the  vegetable  garden ;  then  he  rubbed 
some  of  the  dirt  and  paint  from  his  clothes  and  returned 
to  the  road. 

When  he  arrived  home  he  said  to  his  wife : 

"  I  fell  off  a  tram  on  Waterloo  Bridge.  Lost  my 
hat." 

He  was  cold  and  wet  and  his  teeth  were  chattering. 
His  wife  bustled  him  off  to  bed  and  gave  him  a  little 
hot  grog. 

Between  the  sheets  he  recovered  contentment.  He 
gurgled  exultantly  at  this  last  and  only  satisfying  ex- 
ploit of  the  day.  He  dreamed  lazily  of  the  blind  rage 
of  the  Peels.  .  .  . 

It  must  have  been  half-past  ten  when  his  wife  came 
up  to  bring  him  some  hot  gruel.  He  had  been  asleep. 
She  put  the  cup  by  the  bedside  and  rearranged  his 
pillow. 

"  Feeling  better  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes.     I'm  right,"  he  murmured. 

She  sat  on  a  chair  by  the  side  of  the  bed  and  after  a 
few  minutes  remarked: 


A  GOOD  ACTION  165 

"  You've  missed  an  excitement  while  you've  been 
asleep." 

"  Oh  ? " 

"Yes.     Afire!" 

"A  fire?" 

"  The  Peels  came  home  about  an  hour  and  a  half  ago 
and  found  the  place  on  fire  at  the  back." 

"Oh?" 

"  Their  cook  Lizzie  has  been  over.  She  said  some 
straw  near  the  wash-house  must  have  started  it.  It's 
burnt  out  the  wash-house  and  both  the  fowl-houses. 
She  says  Mr.  Peel  says  he  don't  care  very  much  be- 
cause he  was  heavily  insured  for  the  lot.  But  the 
funny  thing  is,  the  fowls  wasn't  insured  and  they've 
found  the  whole  lot  down  the  field  on  the  rabbit- 
hutches.  Somebody  must  have  got  in  and  let  the 
whole  lot  out.  It  was  a  fine  thing  to  do,  or  else  the 
poor  things  would  have  been  burnt  up.  What's  the 
matter,  'Ned  ?     Is  the  gruel  too  hot  ?  " 


THEM  OTHERS 


THEM  OTHERS 


IT  is  always  disturbing  to  me  when  things  fall  into 
pattern  fomi,  when  in  fact  incidents  of  real  life 
dovetail  with  each  other  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
suggest  the  shape  of  a  story.  A  story  is  a  nice  neat 
little  thing  with  what  is  called  a  "  working-up  "  and  a 
climax,  and  life  is  a  clumsy,  ungraspable  thing,  very 
incomplete  in  its  periods,  and  with  a  poor  sense  of  cli- 
max. In  fact,  death  —  which  is  a  very  uncertain 
quantity  —  is  the  only  definite  note  it  strikes,  and  even 
death  has  an  uncomfortable  w^ay  of  setting  other  things 
in  motion.  If,  therefore,  in  telling  you  about  my 
friend  Mrs.  Ward,  I  am  driven  to  the  usual  shifts  of 
the  story-teller,  you  must  believe  me  that  it  is  because 
this  narrative  concerns  visions:  Mrs.  Ward's  visions, 
my  visions,  and  your  visions.  Consequently  I  am  de- 
pendent upon  my  own  poor  powers  of  transcription  to 
mold  these  visions  into  some  sort  of  shape,  and  am 
driven  into  the  position  of  a  story-teller  against  my  will. 
The  first  vision,  then,  concerns  the  back  view  of  the 
Sheldrake  Eoad,  which,  as  you  know,  butts  on  to  the 
railway  embankment  near  Dalston  Junction  station. 
If  you  are  of  an  adventurous  turn  of  mind  you  shall 
accompany  me,  and  we  will  creep  up  to  the  embank- 
ment together  and  look  down  into  these  back  yards. 


170  THEM  OTHERS 

(We  shall  be  liable  to  a  fine  of  40/-,  according  to  a 
bye-law  of  the  Railway  Company,  for  doing  so,  but  the 
experience  will  justify  us.) 

There  are  twenty-two  of  these  small  buff-brick  houses 
huddled  together  in  this  road,  and  there  is  surely  no 
more  certain  way  of  judging  not  only  the  character  of 
the  individual  inhabitants,  but  of  their  mode  of  life, 
than  by  a  survey  of  these  somewhat  pathetic  yards.  Is 
it  not,  for  instance,  easy  to  determine  the  timid,  well- 
ordered  mind  of  little  Miss  Person,  the  dressmaker  at 
number  nine,  by  its  garden  of  neat  mud  paths,  with  its 
thin  patch  of  meager  grass,  and  the  small  bed  of  skimpy 
geraniums?  Cannot  one  read  the  tragedy  of  those 
dreadful  Alleson  people  at  number  four  ?  The  garden 
is  a  wilderness  of  filth  and  broken  bottles,  where  even 
the  weeds  seem  chary  of  establishing  themselves.  In 
fact,  if  we  listen  carefully  —  and  the  trains  are  not 
making  too  much  noise  —  we  can  hear  the  shrill  cre- 
scendo of  Mrs.  Alleson's  voice  cursing  at  her  husband 
in  the  kitchen,  the  half-empty  gin-bottle  between  them. 

The  methodical  pushfulness  and  practicability  of 
young  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Andrew  MacFarlane  is  evident  at 
number  fourteen.  They  have  actually  grown  a  patch 
of  potatoes,  and  some  scarlet-runners,  and  there  is  a 
chicken  run  near  the  house. 

Those  irresponsible  people,  the  O'Neals,  have  grown 
a  bod  of  hollyhocks,  but  for  the  rest  the  garden  is  untidy 
and  unkempt.  One  could  almost  swear  they  were  con- 
nected in  some  obscure  way  with  the  theatrical  profes- 
sion. 


THEM  OTHERS  171 

Mrs.  Abbot's  garden  is  a  sort  of  playground.  It  has 
asphalt  paths,  always  swanning  with  small  and  not  too 
clean  children,  and  there  are  five  lines  of  washing  sus- 
pended above  the  mud.  Every  day  seems  to  be  Mrs. 
Abbot's  washing-day.  Perhaps  she  "  does  "  for  others. 
Sam  Abbot  is  certainly  a  lazy,  insolent  old  rascal,  and 
such  always  seem  destined  to  be  richly  fertile.  Mrs. 
Abbot  is  a  pleasant  "  body,"  though.  The  Greens  are 
the  swells  of  the  road.  George  Green  is  in  the  grocery 
line,  and  both  his  sons  are  earning  good  money,  and  one 
daughter  has  piano  lessons.  The  narrow  strip  of  yard 
is  actually  divided  into  two  sections,  a  flower-garden 
and  a  kitchen-garden.  And  they  are  the  only  people 
who  have  flower-boxes  in  the  front. 

JSTumber  eight  is  a  curious  place.  Old  Mr.  Bilge 
lives  there.  He  spends  most  of  his  time  in  the  garden, 
but  nothing  ever  seems  to  come  up.  He  stands  about 
in  his  shirt-sleeves,  and  with  a  circular  paper  hat  on 
his  head,  like  a  printer.  They  say  he  was  formerly  a 
com  merchant  but  has  lost  all  his  money.  He  keeps 
the  garden  very  neat  and  tidy,  but  nothing  seems  to 
grow.  He  stands  there  staring  at  the  beds,  as  though 
he  found  their  barrenness  quite  unaccountable. 

Number  eleven  is  unoccupied,  and  number  twelve  is 
Mrs.  Ward's. 

We  now  come  to  an  important  vision,  and  I  want  you 
to  come  down  with  me  from  the  embankment  and  to 
view  Mrs.  Ward's  garden  from  inside,  and  aJso  Mrs. 
Ward  as  I  saw  her  on  that  evening  when  I  had  oc- 
casion to  pay  my  first  visit. 


172  THEM  OTHERS 

It  had  been  raining,  but  the  sun  had  come  out.  We 
wandered  round  the  paths  together,  and  I  can  see  her 
old  face  now,  lined  and  seamed  with  years  of  anxious 
toil  and  struggle;  her  long,  bony  arms,  slightly  with- 
ered, but  moving  restlessly  in  the  direction  of  snails  and 
slugs. 

"  O  dear !  O  deai- !  "  she  was  saying.  "  What  with 
the  dogs,  and  the  cats,  and  the  snails,  and  the  trains, 
it's  wonderful  anything  comes  up  at  all !  " 

Mrs.  Ward's  garden  has  a  character  of  its  own,  and 
I  cannot  account  for  it.  There  is  nothing  very  special 
growing  —  a  few  pansies  and  a  narrow  border  of  Lon- 
don Pride,  several  clumps  of  unrecognizable  things  that 
haven't  flowered,  the  grass  patch  in  only  fair  order, 
and  at  the  end  of  the  garden  an  unfinished  rabbit-hutch. 
But  there  is  about  Mrs.  Ward's  garden  an  atmosphere. 
There  is  something  about  it  that  reflects  her  placid  eye, 
the  calm,  somewhat  contemplative  way  she  has  of  look- 
ing right  through  things,  as  though  they  didn't  concern 
her  too  closely.  As  though,  in  fact,  she  were  too  oc- 
cupied with  her  own  inner  visions. 

"  ]^o,"  she  says  in  answer  to  my  query,  "  we  don't 
mind  the  trains  at  all.  In  fact,  me  and  my  Tom  we 
often  come  out  here  and  sit  after  supper.  And  Tom 
smokes  his  pipe.     We  like  to  hear  the  trains  go  by." 

She  gazes  abstractedly  at  the  embankment. 

"  I  like  to  hear  things  .  .  .  going  on  and  that.  It's 
Dalston  Junction  a  little  further  on.  The  trains  go 
from  there  to  all  parts,  right  out  into  the  country  they 


THEM  OTHERS  173 

do  .  .  .  ever  so  far.  .  .  .  My  Ernie  went  from  Dais- 
ton." 

Slie  adds  the  last  in  a  changed  tone  of  voice.  And 
now  perhaps  we  come  to  the  most  important  vision  of 
all  —  Mrs.  Ward's  vision  of  "  my  Eraie." 

I  ought  perhaps  to  mention  that  I  had  never  met  "  my 
Ernie."  I  can  only  see  him  through  Mrs.  Ward's  eyes. 
At  the  time  when  I  met  her,  he  had  been  away  at  the 
war  for  nearly  a  year.  I  need  hardly  say  that  "  my 
Ernie "  was  a  paragon  of  sons.  He  was  brilliant, 
handsome,  and  incredibly  clever.  Everything  that  "  my 
Ernie  "  said  was  treasured.  Every  opinion  that  he  ex- 
pressed stood.  If  "  my  Ernie "  liked  any  one,  that 
person  was  always  a  welcome  guest.  If  "  my  Ernie  " 
disliked  any  one  they  were  not  to  be  tolerated,  however 
plausible  they  might  appear. 

I  had  seen  Ernie's  photograph,  and  I  must  confess 
that  ho  appeared  a  rather  weak,  extremely  ordinary- 
looking  young  man,  but  then  I  would  rather  trust  to 
Mrs.  Ward's  visions  than  the  art  of  any  photographer. 

Tom  Ward  was  a  mild,  ineffectual-looking  old  man, 
with  something  of  Mrs.  Ward's  placidity  but  with  noth- 
ing of  her  strong  individual  poise.  He  had  some  job 
in  a  gas-works.  There  was  also  a  daughter  named  Lily, 
a  brilliant  person  who  served  in  a  tea-shop,  and  some- 
times went  to  theaters  with  young  men.  To  both  hus- 
band and  daughter  Mrs.  Ward  adopted  an  affection- 
ate, mothering,  almost  pitying  attitude.  But  with  "  my 
Ernie  "  it  was  quite  a  different  thing.     I  can  see  her 


174  THEM  OTHERS 

stooping  figure,  and  her  silver-white  hair  gleaming  in 
the  sun  as  we  come  to  the  unfinished  rabbit-hutch,  and 
the  curious  wistful  tones  of  her  voice  as  she  touches  it 
and  says: 

"  When  my  Ernie  comes  home.  .  .  ." 

The  war  to  her  was  some  unimaginable  but  discon- 
certing affair  centered  round  Ernie.  People  seemed 
to  have  got  into  some  desperate  trouble,  and  Ernie  was 
the  only  one  capable  of  getting  tliem  out  of  it.  I  could 
not  at  that  time  gauge  how  much  Mrs.  Ward  realized 
the  dangers  the  boy  was  experiencing.  She  always 
spoke  with  conviction  that  he  would  return  safely. 
JSTearly  every  other  sentence  contained  some  reference 
to  things  that  were  to  happen  "  when  my  Ernie  comes 
home."  What  doubts  and  fears  she  had  were  only 
recognizable  by  the  subtlest  shades  in  her  voice. 

When  we  looked  over  the  wall  into  the  deserted  gar- 
den next  door,  she  said : 

"  O  dear !  I'm  afraid  they'll  never  let  that  place. 
It's  been  empty  since  the  Stellings  went  away.  Oh, 
years  ago,  before  this  old  war." 

II 

It  was  on  the  occasion  of  my  second  visit  that  Mrs. 
Ward  told  me  more  about  the  Stellings.  It  appeared 
that  they  were  a  German  family,  of  all  things !  There 
was  a  Mr,  Stelling,  and  a  Mrs.  Frow  Stelling,  and  two 
boys. 

Mr.  Stelling  was  a  watchmaker,  and  he  came  from  a 


THEM  OTHERS  175 

place  called  Bremen.  It  was  a  very  sad  story  Mrs. 
Ward  told  me.  They  had  only  been  over  here  for  ten 
months  when  Mr.  Stclling  died,  and  Mrs.  Frow  Stell- 
ing  and  the  boys  went  back  to  Germany. 

During  the  time  of  the  Stellings'  sojourn  in  the  Shel- 
drake Road  it  appeared  that  the  Wards  had  seen  quite 
a  good  deal  of  them,  and  though  it  would  be  an  ex- 
aggeration to  say  that  they  ever  became  great  friends, 
they  certainly  got  through,  that  period  without  any  un- 
pleasantness, and  even  developed  a  certain  degree  of 
intimacv. 

"  Allowing  for  their  being  foreigners,"  Mrs.  Ward 
explained,  "  they  were  quite  pleasant  people." 

On  one  or  two  occasions  they  invited  each  other  to 
supper,  and  I  wish  my  visions  were  sufficiently  clear 
to  envisage  those  two  families  indulging  this  social 
habit. 

According  to  Mrs.  Ward,  Mr.  Stelling  was  a  kind 
little  man  with  a  round  fat  face.  He  spoke  English 
fluently,  but  ^Irs.  Ward  objected  to  his  table  man- 
ners. 

"  Wben  my  Tom  eats,"  she  said,  "  you  don't  hear  a 
sound  —  I  look  after  that !  —  But  that  Mr.  Stelling 
.  .  .  O  dear!" 

The  trouble  with  Mrs.  Stelling  was  that  she  could 
only  speak  a  few  words  of  English,  but  Mrs.  Ward 
said  "  she  was  a  pleasant  enough  little  body,"  and  she 
established  herself  quite  definitely  in  Mrs.  Ward's  af- 
fections for  the  reason  that  she  was  so  obviously  and 
so  passionately  devoted  to  her  two  sons. 


176  THEM  OTHEES 

"  Ob,  my  word,  though,  they  do  have  funny  ways  — 
these  foreigners,"  she  continued.  "  The  things  they 
used  to  eat!  most  peculiar!  I've  knovrai  them  eat 
stewed  prunes  with  hot  meat !  " 

Mrs.  Ward  repeated,  "  Stewed  pnmes  with  hot 
meat !  "  several  times,  and  shook  her  head,  as  though 
this  exotic  mixture  was  a  thing  to  be  sternly  discour- 
aged. But  she  acknowledged  that  Mrs.  Frow  Stelling 
was  in  some  ways  a  very  good  cook,  in  fact,  her  cakes 
were  really  wonderful,  "  the  sort  of  thing  you  can't 
even  buy  in  a  shop." 

About  the  boys  there  seemed  to  be  a  little  divergence 
of  opinion.  They  were  both  also  fat-faced,  and  their 
heads  were  "  almost  shaved  like  convicts."  The  elder 
one  wore  spectacles  and  was  rather  noisy,  but: 

"  My  Ernie  liked  the  younger  one.  Oh,  yes,  my 
Ernie  said  that  young  Hans  was  quite  a  nice  boy.  It 
was  funny  the  way  they  spoke,  funny  and  difficult  to 
understand." 

It  was  very  patent  that  between  the  elder  boy  and 
Ernie,  who  were  of  about  the  same  age,  there  was  an 
element  of  rivalry  which  was  perhaps  more  accentuated 
in  the  attitude  of  the  mothers  than  in  the  boys  them- 
selves. Mrs.  Ward  could  find  little  virtue  in  this  elder 
boy.  Most  of  her  criticism  of  the  family  w^as  leveled 
against  him.  The  rest  she  found  only  a  little  peculiar. 
She  said  she  had  never  heard  such  a  funny  Christian 
name  as  Frow.  Florrie  she  had  heard  of,  and  even 
Flora,  but  not  Frow.  I  suggested  that  perhaps  Frow 
might  be  some  sort  of  title,  but  she  shook  her  head  and 


THEM  OTHERS  177 

said  tliat  that  was  what  she  was  always  known  as  in  the 
Sheldrake  Road,  "  Mrs.  Frow  Stelling." 

In  spite  of  Mrs.  Ward's  lack  of  opportunity  for 
greater  intimacy  on  account  of  the  language  problem, 
her  own  fine  imaginative  qualities  helped  her  a  great 
deal.  And  in  one  particular  she  seemed  curiously 
vivid.  She  gathered  an  account  from  one  of  them  — 
I'm  not  sure  whether  it  was  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Frow  Stelling 
or  one  of  the  boys  —  of  a  place  they  described  near 
their  home  in  Bremen.  There  was  a  narrow  street  of 
high  buildings  by  a  canal,  and  a  little  bridge  that  led 
over  into  a  gentleman's  park.  At  a  point  where  the 
canal  turned  sharply  eastwards  there  was  a  clump  of 
linden-trees,  where  one  could  go  in  the  summer-time, 
and  under  their  shade  one  might  sit  and  drink  light 
beer,  and  listen  to  a  band  that  played  in  the  early  part 
of  the  evening. 

Mrs.  Ward  was  curiously  clear  about  that.  She  said 
she  often  thought  about  Mr.  Stelling  sitting  there  after 
his  day's  work.  It  must  have  been  very  pleasant  for 
him,  and  he  seemed  to  miss  this  luxury  in  Dalston 
more  than  anything.  Once  Ernie,  in  a  friendly  mood, 
had  taken  him  into  the  four-ale  bar  of  "  The  Unicom  " 
at  the  comer  of  the  Sheldrake  Road,  but  Mr.  Stelling 
did  not  seem  happy.  Ernie  acknowledged  afterwards 
that  it  had  been  an  unfortunate  evening.  The  bar  had 
been  rather  crowded,  and  there  was  a  man  and  two 
women  who  had  all  been  drinking  too  much.  In  any 
case,  Mr.  Stelling  had  been  obviously  restless  there,  and 
he  had  said  afterwards : 


178  THEM  OTHEES 

"  It  is  not  that  one  wishes  to  drink  only  .  .  ." 
,  And  he  had  shaken  his  fat  little  head,  and  had  never 
been  known  to  visit  "  The  Unicorn  "  again. 

Mr.  Stelling  died  quite  suddenly  of  some  heart 
trouble,  and  Mrs.  Ward  could  not  get  it  out  of  her 
head  that  his  last  illness  was  brought  about  by  his  dis- 
appointment and  grief  in  not  being  able  to  go  and  sit 
quietly  under  the  linden-trees  after  his  day's  work  and 
listen  to  a  band. 

"  You  know,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  when  you  get  ac- 
customed to  a  thing,  it's  had  for  you  to  leave  it  off." 

When  poor  Mr.  Stelling  died,  Mrs.  Frow  Stelling 
was  heart-broken,  and  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  Mrs. 
Ward  went  in  and  wept  with  her,  and  in  their  dumb 
way  they  forged  the  chains  of  some  desperate  under- 
standing. When  Mrs.  Erow  Stelling  went  back  to  Ger- 
many they  promised  to  write  to  each  other.  But  they 
never  did,  and  for  a  very  good  reason.  As  Mrs.  Ward 
said,  she  was  "  no  scholard,"'  and  as  for  Mrs.  Frow 
Stelling,  her  English  was  such  a  doubtful  quantity,  she 
probably  never  got  beyond  addressing  the  envelope. 

"  That  was  three  years  ago,"  said  Mrs.  Ward. 
"  Them  boys  must  be  eighteen  and  nineteen  now." 


Ill 

If  I  have  intruded  too  greatly  into  the  intimacy  of 
Mrs.  Ward's  life,  one  of  my  excuses  must  be  —  not  that 
I  am  "  a  scholard  "  but  that  I  am  in  any  case  able  to 
read  a  simple  English  letter.     I  was  in  fact  on  sev- 


THEM  OTHERS  179 

eral  occasions  "  requisitioned."  When  Lily  was  not  at 
home,  sonic  one  had  to  read  Ernie's  letters  out  loud. 
The  arrival  of  Ernie's  letters  was  always  an  inspiring 
experience.  I  should  perhaps  be  in  the  garden  with 
Mrs.  Ward,  when  Tom  would  come  hurrying  out  to 
the  back,  and  call  out: 

"  Mother !  a  letter  from  Ernie !  " 

And  then  there  would  be  such  excitement  and  com- 
motion. The  first  thing  was  always  the  hunt  for  Mrs. 
Ward's  spectacles.  They  were  never  where  she  had 
put  them.  Tom  would  keep  on  turning  the  letter  over 
in  his  hands,  and  examining  the  postmark,  and  he  would 
reiterate : 

"  Well,  what  did  you  do  with  them,  mother  ?  " 

At  length  they  would  be  found  in  some  unlikely 
place,  and  she  would  take  the  letter  tremblingly  to  the 
light.  I  never  knew  quite  how  much  Mrs.  Ward  could 
read.  She  could  certainly  read  a  certain  amount.  I 
saw  her  old  eyes  sparkling  and  her  tongue  moving 
jerkily  between  her  parted  lips,  as  though  she  were 
formulating  the  words  she  read,  and  she  would  keep 
on  repeating: 

"T'ch!  T'ch!  O  dear,  O  dear,  tlie  things  he 
says !  " 

And  Tom  impatiently  by  the  door  would  say: 

"  Well,  what  does  he  say  ?  " 

She  never  attempted  to  read  the  letter  out  loud,  but 
at  last  she  would  wipe  her  spectacles  and  say: 

"  Oh,  you  read  it,  sir.     The  tilings  he  says !  " 

They  were  indeed  very  good  letters  of  Ernie's,  writ- 


180  THEM  OTHERS 

ten  apparently  in  the  highest  spirits.  There  was  never 
a  gnimble,  not  a  word.  One  might  gather  that  he  was 
away  with  a  lot  of  young  bloods  on  some  sporting  ex- 
pedition, in  which  football,  rags,  sing-songs,  and  strange 
feeds  played  a  conspicuous  part.  I  read  a  good  many 
of  Ernie's  letters,  and  I  do  not  remember  that  he  ever 
made  a  single  reference  to  the  horrors  of  war,  or  said 
anything  about  his  own  personal  discomforts.  The  boy 
must  have  had  something  of  his  mother  in  him  in  spite 
of  the  photograph. 

And  between  the  kitchen  and  the  yard  Mrs.  "Ward 
would  spend  her  day  placidly  content,  for  Ernie  never 
failed  to  write.  There  was  sometimes  a  lapse  of  a  few 
days,  but  the  letter  seldom  failed  to  come  every  fort- 
night. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  know  what  Mrs.  Ward's  ac- 
tual conception  of  the  war  was.  She  never  read  the 
newspapers,  for  the  reason,  as  she  explained,  that 
"  there  was  nothing  in  them  these  days  except  about  this 
old  war."  She  occasionally  dived  into  Reynold's  news- 
paper on  Sundays  to  see  if  there  were  any  interesting 
law  cases  or  any  news  of  a  romantic  character.  There 
was  nothing  romantic  in  the  war  news.  It  was  all 
preposterous.  She  did  indeed  read  the  papers  for  the 
first  few  weeks,  but  this  was  for  the  reason  that  she 
had  some  vague  idea  that  they  might  contain  some  ac- 
count of  Ernie's  doings.  But  as  they  did  not,  she  dis- 
missed them  with  contempt. 

But  I  found  her  one  night  in  a  peculiarly  preoc- 
cupied mood.     She  was  out  in  the  garden,  and  she  kept 


THEM  OTHERS  181 

staring  abstractedly  over  the  fence  into  the  unoccu- 
pied ground  next  door.  It  appeared  that  it  had  dawned 
upon  her  that  the  war  was  to  do  with  "  these  Germans," 
that  in  fact  we  were  fighting  the  Germans,  and  then  she 
thought  of  the  Stellings.  Those  boys  would  now  be 
about  eighteen  and  nineteen.  They  would  be  fighting 
too.  They  would  be  fighting  against  Ernie.  This 
seemed  very  peculiar. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said,  "  I  never  took  to  that  elder 
boy  —  a  greedy  rough  sort  of  boy  he  was.  But  I'm 
sure  my  Ernie  wouldn't  hurt  young  Hans." 

She  meditated  for  a  moment  as  though  she  were  con- 
templating what  particular  action  Ernie  would  take  in 
the  matter.  She  knew  he  didn't  like  the  elder  boy  but 
she  doubted  whether  he  would  want  to  do  anything  very 
violent  to  him. 

"  They  went  out  to  a  music-hall  one  night  together," 
she  explained,  as  though  a  friendship  cemented  in  this 
luxurious  fashion  could  hardly  bo  broken  by  an  unrea- 
sonable display  of  passion. 


IV 

It  was  a  few  weeks  later  that  the  terror  suddenly 
crept  into  Mrs.  Ward's  life.  Ernie's  letters  ceased 
abniptly.  The  fortnight  passed,  then  three  weeks,  four 
weeks,  five  weeks,  and  not  a  word.  I  don't  think  that 
Mrs.  Ward's  character  at  any  time  stood  out  so  vividly 
as  during  those  weeks  of  stress..  It  is  true  she  appeared 
a  little  feebler,  and  she  trembled  in  her  movements, 


182  THEM  OTHEES 

whilst  her  eyes  seemed  abstracted  as  though  all  the 
power  in  them  were  concentrated  in  her  ears,  alert  for 
the  bell  or  the  knock.  She  started  visibly  at  odd  mo- 
ments, and  her  imagination  was  always  carrying  her 
tempestuously  to  the  front  door  only  to  answer  —  a 
milkman  or  a  casual  hawker.  But  she  never  expressed 
her  fear  in  words.  When  Tom  came  home  —  he 
seemed  to  have  aged  rapidly  —  he  would  come  bustling 
out  into  the  garden,  and  cry  tremblingly : 

"  There  ain't  been  no  letter  to-day,  mother  ? " 

And  she  would  say  quite  placidly : 

"  ]^o,  not  to-day,  Tom.  It'll  come  to-morrow,  I  ex- 
pect." 

And  she  would  rally  him  and  talk  of  little  things, 
and  get  busy  with  his  supper.  And  in  the  garden  I 
would  try  and  talk  to  her  about  her  clump  of  pansies, 
and  the  latest  yarn  about  the  neighbors,  and  I  tried 
to  get  between  her  and  the  rabbit-hutch  with  its  dumb 
appeal  of  incompletion.  And  I  would  notice  her  star- 
ing curiously  over  into  the  empty  garden  next  door,  as 
though  she  were  being  assailed  by  some  disturbing  ap- 
prehensions. Ernie  would  not  hurt  that  eldest  boy 
.  .  .  but  suppose  ...  if  things  were  reversed  .  .  . 
there  was  something  inexplicable  and  terrible  lurking 
in  this  passive  silence. 

During  this  period  the  old  man  was  suddenly  taken 
very  ill.  He  came  homo  one  night  with  a  high  tem- 
perature and  developed  pneumonia.  He  was  laid  up 
for  many  weeks,  and  she  kept  back  the  telegram  that 
came  while  he  was  almost  unconscious,  and  she  tended 


THEM  OTHEES  183 

him  niglit  and  day,  nursing  her  own  anguish  with  a 
calm  face. 

For  the  telegram  told  her  that  her  Ernie  was  "  miss- 
ing, believed  wounded." 

I  do  not  know  at  what  period  she  told  the  father  this 
news,  but  it  was  certainly  not  till  he  was  convalescent. 
And  the  old  man  seemed  to  sink  into  a  kind  of  apathy. 
He  sat  feebly  in  front  of  the  kitchen  fire,  coughing  and 
making  no  effort  to  control  his  grief. 

Outside  the  great  trains  went  rushing  by,  night  and 
day.  Things  were  "  going  on,"  but  they  were  all  mean- 
ingless, cruel. 

We  made  enquiries  at  the  War  Office,  but  they  could 
not  amplify  the  laconic  telegTam. 

And  then  the  winter  came  on,  and  the  gardens  were 
bleak  in  the  Sheldrake  Road.  And  Lily  ran  away  and 
married  a  young  tobacconist,  who  was  earning  twenty- 
five  shillings  a  week.  And  old  Tom  was  dismissed 
from  the  gas-works.  His  work  was  not  proving  satis- 
factory. And  he  sat  about  at  home  and  moped.  And 
in  the  meantime  the  price  of  foodstuffs  was  going  up, 
and  coals  were  a  luxury.  And  so  in  the  early  morning 
Mrs.  Ward  would  go  off  and  work  for  Mrs.  Abbot  at 
the  wash-tub,  and  she  would  earn  eight  or  twelve  shill- 
ings a  week. 

It  is  difficult  to  know  how  they  managed  during  those 
days,  but  one  could  see  that  Mrs.  Ward  was  buoyed  up 
by  some  poignant  hope.  She  would  not  give  way. 
Eventually  old  Tom  did  get  some  work  to  do  at  a  sta- 
tioner's.    The  work  was  comparatively  light,  and  the 


184  THEM  OTHEES 

pay  equally  so,  so  Mrs.  Wai'd  still  continued  to  work 
for  Mrs.  Abbot. 

My  next  vision  of  Mrs.  Ward  concerns  a  certain  win- 
ter evening.  I  could  not  see  inside  the  kitchen,  but  the 
old  man  could  be  heard  complaining.  His  querulous 
voice  was  rambling  on,  and  Mrs.  Ward  was  standing 
by  the  door  leading  into  the  garden.  She  had  returned 
from  her  day's  work  and  was  scraping  a  pan  out  into  a 
bin  near  the  door.  A  train  shrieked  by,  and  the  wind 
was  blowing  a  fine  rain  against  the  house.  Suddenly 
she  stood  up  and  looked  up  at  the  sky ;  then  she  pushed 
back  her  hair  from  her  brow,  and  frowned  at  the  dark 
house  next  door.     Then  she  turned  and  said : 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  Tom,  if  we've  got  to  do  it,  we 
must  do  it.  If  them  others  can  stand  it,  we  can  stand 
it.     Whatever  them  others  can  do,  we  can  do." 

And  then  my  visions  jump  rather  wildly.  And  the 
war  becomes  to  me  epitomized  in  two  women.  One  in 
this  dim  doorway  in  our  obscure  suburb  of  Dalston, 
scraping  out  a  pan,  and  the  other  perhaps  in  some  dark 
high  house  near  a  canal  on  the  outskirts  of  Bremen. 
Them  others!  These  two  women  silently  enduring. 
And  the  trains  rushing  by,  and  all  the  dark,  mysterious 
forces  of  the  night  operating  on  them  equivocally. 

Poor  Mrs.  Erow  Stelling!  Perhaps  those  boys  of 
hers  are  "  missing,  believed  killed."  Perhaps  they  are 
killed  for  certain.!  She  is  as  much  outside  "  the  things 
going  on  "  as  Mrs.  Ward.  Perhaps  she  is  equally  as 
patient,  as  brave. 


THEM  OTHERS  185 

And  Mrs.  Ward  enters  the  kitchen,  and  her  eyes  are 
blazing  with  a  strange  light  as  she  says: 

"  We'll  hear  to-morrow,  Tom.  And  if  we  don't  hear 
to-morrow,  we'll  hear  the  next  day.  And  if  we  don't 
hear  the  next  day,  we'll  hear  the  day  after.  And  if  we 
don't  ...  if  we  don't  never  hear  .  .  .  again  ...  if 
them  others  can  stand  it,  we  can  stand  it,  I  say." 

And  then  her  voice  breaks,  and  she  cries  a  little,  for 
endurance  has  its  limitations,  and  —  the  work  is  hard 
at  Mrs.  Abbot's. 

And  the  months  go  by,  and  she  stoops  a  little  more  as 
she  walks,  and  —  some  one  has  thrown  a  cloth  over  the 
rabbit-hutch  with  its  unfinished  roof.  And  Mrs.  Ward 
is  curiously  retrospective.  It  is  useless  to  tell  her  of 
the  things  of  the  active  world.  She  listens  politely  but 
she  does  not  hear.  She  is  full  of  reminiscences  of 
Ernie's  and  Lily's  childhood.  She  recounts  again  and 
again  the  story  of  how  Ernie  when  he  was  a  little  boy 
ordered  five  tons  of  coal  from  a  coal  merchant  to  be  sent 
to  a  girls'  school  in  Dalston  High  Road.  She  describes 
the  coal  carts  arriving  in  the  morning,  and  the  conster- 
nation of  the  head-mistress. 

"  O  dear,  O  dear,"  she  says ;  "  the  things  he  did !  " 

She  does  not  talk  much  of  the  Stellings,  but  one  day 
she  says  meditatively : 

"  Mrs.  Frow  Stelling  thought  a  lot  of  that  boy  Hans. 
So  she  did  of  the  other,  as  far  as  that  goes.  It's  only 
natural  like,  I  suppose." 


186  THEM  OTHEES 


As  time  went  on  Tom  Ward  lost  all  hope.  He  said 
lie  was  convinced  that  the  boy  was  killed.  Having  ar- 
rived at  this  conclusion  he  seemed  to  become  more  com- 
posed. He  gradually  began  to  accustom  himself  to  the 
new  point  of  view.  But  with  Mrs.  Ward  the  exact  op- 
posite was  the  case. 

She  was  convinced  that  the  boy  was  alive,  but  she 
suffered  terribly. 

There  came  a  time  —  it  was  in  early  April  —  when 
one  felt  that  the  strain  could  not  last.  She  seemed  to 
lose  all  interest  in  the  passing  world  and  lived  entirely 
within  herself.  Even  the  arrival  of  Lily's  baby  did 
not  rouse  her.  She  looked  at  the  child  queerly,  as 
though  she  doubted  whether  any  useful  or  happy  pur- 
pose was  served  by  its  appearance. 

It  was  a  boy. 

In  spite  of  her  averred  optimism  she  lost  her  tremu- 
lous sense  of  apprehension  when  the  bell  went  or  the 
front  door  was  tapped.  She  let  the  milkman  —  and 
even  the  postmaa  —  wait. 

When  she  spoke  it  was  invariably  of  things  that  hap- 
pened years  ago. 

Sometimes  she  talked  about  the  Stellings,  and  on 
one  Sunday  she  made  a  strange  pilgrimage  out  to 
Einchley  and  visited  Mr.  Stelling's  grave.  I  don't 
know  what  she  did  there,  but  she  returned  looking  very 
exhausted  and  unwell.     As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  was 


THEM  OTHERS  187 

unwell  for  some  days  after  this  visit,  and  she  suffered 
violent  twinges  of  rheumatism  in  her  legs. 

I  now  come  to  my  most  unforgetable  vision  of  Mrs. 
Ward. 

It  was  a  day  at  the  end  of  April,  and  warm  for  the 
time  of  year.  I  was  standing  in  the  garden  with  her 
and  it  was  nearly  dark.  A  goods  train  had  been  shunt- 
ing, and  making  a  gi-eat  deal  of  noise  in  front  of  the 
house,  and  at  last  had  disappeared.  I  had  not  been 
able  to  help  noticing  that  Mrs.  Ward's  garden  was 
curiously  neglected  for  her  for  the  time  of  year.  The 
grass  was  growing  on  the  paths,  and  the  snails  had  left 
their  silver  trail  over  all  the  fences. 

I  was  telling  her  a  rumor  I  had  heard  about  the 
railway  porter  and  his  wife  at  number  twenty-three, 
and  she  seemed  fairly  interested,  for  she  had  known 
John  Hemsley,  the  porter,  fifteen  years  ago  when 
Ernie  was  a  baby.  There  were  two  old  broken  Wind- 
sor chairs  out  in  the  garden,  and  on  one  was  a  zinc 
basin  in  which  were  some  potatoes.  She  was  peeling 
them,  as  Lily  and  her  husband  were  coming  to  supper. 
By  the  kitchen  door  was  a  small  sink.  When  she  had 
finished  the  potatoes,  she  stood  up  and  began  to  pour 
the  water  down  the  sink,  taking  care  not  to  let  the  skins 
go  too.  I  was  noticing  her  old  bent  back,  and  her  long 
bony  hands  gripping  the  sides  of  the  basin,  when  sud- 
denly a  figure  came  limping  round  the  bend  of  the 
house  from  the  side  passage,  and  two  arms  were  thrown 
round  her  waist,  and  a  voice  said : 


188  THEM  OTHEES 

"  Mind  them  skins  don't  go  down  the  sink,  mother. 
They'll  stop  it  up  !  " 

VI 

As  I  explained  to  Ernie  afterwards,  it  was  an  ex- 
tremely foolish  thing  to  do.  If  his  mother  had  had 
anything  wrong  with  her  heart,  it  might  have  been  very 
serious.  There  have  been  many  cases  of  people  dying 
from  the  shock  of  such  an  experience. 

As  it  was,  she  merely  dropped  the  basin  and  stood 
there  trembling  like  a  leaf,  and  Ernie  laughed  loud  and 
uproariously.  It  must  have  been  three  or  four  min- 
utes before  she  could  regain  her  speech,  and  then  all 
she  could  manage  to  say  was: 

"Ernie!  ...  My  Ernie!" 

And  the  boy  laughed,  and  ragged  his  mother,  and 
pulled  her  into  the  house,  and  Tom  appeared  and  stared 
at  his  son,  and  said  feebly: 

"Well,  I  never!" 

I  don't  know  how  it  was  that  I  found  myself  intrud- 
ing upon  the  sanctity  of  the  inner  life  of  the  Ward 
family  that  evening.  I  had  never  had  a  meal  there 
before,  but  I  felt  that  I  was  holding  a  sort  of  watching 
brief  over  the  soul  and  body  of  Mrs.  Ward.  I  had  a 
little  medical  training  in  my  early  youth,  and  this  may 
have  been  one  of  the  reasons  which  prompted  me  to 
stay. 

When  Lily  and  her  husband  appeared  we  sat  down 
to  a  meal  of  mashed  potatoes  and  onions  stewed  in  milk, 
with  bread  and  cheese,  and  very  excellent  it  was. 


THEM  OTHERS  189 

Lily  and  her  liusband  took  the  whole  thing  in  a  bois- 
terous, hjoh  comedy  manner  that  fitted  in  with  the 
mood  of  Eniie.  Old  Tom  sat  there  staring  at  his  son, 
and  repeating  at  intervals: 

"  Well,  I  never !  " 

And  Mrs.  Ward  hovered  round  the  boy's  plate.  Her 
eyes  divided  their  time  between  his  plate  and  his  face, 
and  she  hardly  spoke  all  the  evening. 

Ernie's  story  was  remarkable  enough.  He  told  it 
disconnectedly  and  rather  incoherently.  There  were 
moments  when  he  rambled  in  a  rather  peculiar  way, 
and  sometimes  he  stammered,  and  seemed  unable  to 
frame  a  sentence.  Lily's  husband  went  out  to  fetch 
some  beer  to  celebrate  the  joyful  occasion,  and  Ernie 
drank  his  in  little  sips,  and  spluttered.  The  boy  must 
have  suffered  considerably,  and  he  had  a  wound  in  the 
abdomen,  and  another  in  the  right  forearm  which  for 
a  time  had  paralyzed  him. 

As  far  as  I  could  gather,  his  story  was  this: 

He  and  a  platoon  of  men  had  been  ambushed  and 
had  had  to  surrender.  When  being  sent  back  to  a  base, 
three  of  them  tried  to  escape  from  the  train,  which  had 
been  held  up  at  night.  He  did  not  know  what  had 
happened  to  the  other  two  men,  but  it  was  on  this  oc- 
casion that  he  received  his  abdominal  wound  at  th** 
hands  of  a  guard. 

He  had  then  been  sent  to  some  infirmary  where  he 
was  fairly  well  treated,  but  as  soon  as  his  wound  had 
healed  a  little,  he  had  been  suddenly  sent  to  some  for- 
tress prison,  presumably  as  a  punishment.     He  hadn't 


190  THEM  OTHEES 

the  faintest  idea  how  long  he  had  been  confined  there. 
He  said  it  seemed  like  fifteen  years.  It  was  probably 
nine  months.  He  had  solitary  confinement  in  a  cell, 
which  was  like  a  small  lavatory.  He  had  fifteen  min- 
utes' exercise  every  day  in  a  yard  Avith  some  other  pris- 
oners, who  were  Eussians  he  thought.  He  spoke  to 
no  one.  He  used  to  sing  and  recite  in  his  cell,  and 
there  were  times  when  he  was  quite  convinced  that  he 
was  "  off  his  chump."  He  said  he  had  lost  "  all  sense 
of  everything  "  when  he  was  suddenly  transferred  to 
another  prison.  Here  the  conditions  were  somewhat 
better  and  he  was  made  to  work.  He  said  he  wrote  six 
or  seven  letters  home  from  there,  but  received  no  reply. 
The  letters  certainly  never  reached  Dalston.  The 
food  was  execrable,  but  a  big  improvement  on  the  dun- 
geon. He  was  only  there  a  few  weeks  when  he  and 
some  thirty  other  prisoners  were  sent  suddenly  to  work 
on  the  land  at  a  kind  of  settlement.  He  said  that  the 
life  there  would  have  been  tolerable  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  the  fact  that  the  Commandant  was  an  absolute  brute. 
The  food  was  worse  than  in  the  prison,  and  they  were 
punished  severely  for  the  most  trivial  offenses. 

It  was  here,  however,  that  he  met  a  sailor  named 
Martin,  a  Eoyal  ISTaval  reservist,  an  elderly  thickset 
man  with  a  black  beard  and  only  one  eye.  Ernie  said 
that  this  Martin  "  was  an  artist.  He  wangled  every- 
thing. He  had  a  genius  for  getting  what  he  wanted. 
He  would  get  a  beef-steak  out  of  stone."  In  fact,  it 
was  obvious  that  the  whole  of  Ernie's  nan*ative  was 
colored  by  his  vision  of  Martin.     He  said  he'd  never 


TIIEM  OTHERS  191 

met  such  a  cliap  in  his  life.  He  admired  him  enor- 
mously, and  he  was  also  a  little  afraid  of  him. 

By  some  miraculous  means  peculiar  to  sailors,  Mar- 
tin acquired  a  compass.  Ernie  hardly  knew  what  a 
compass  was,  but  tlie  sailor  explained  to  him  that  it 
was  all  that  was  necessary  to  take  you  straight  to  Eng- 
land. Ernie  said  he  "  had  had  enough  escaping.  It 
didn't  agree  with  his  health,"  but  so  strong  was  his 
faith  and  belief  in  Martin  that  he  ultimately  agreed  to 
try  with  him. 

He  said  Martin's  method  of  escape  was  the  coolest 
thing  he'd  ever  seen.  He  plamied  it  all  beforehand. 
It  was  the  fag-end  of  the  day,  and  the  whistle  had  gone 
and  the  prisoners  were  trooping  back  across  a  potato- 
field.  Martin  and  Ernie  were  very  slow.  They  lin- 
gered apparently  to  discuss  some  matter  connected  with 
the  soil.  There  were  two  sentries  in  sight,  one  near 
them  and  the  other  perhaps  a  hundred  yards  away. 
The  potato  field  was  on  a  slope  and  at  the  bottom  of  the 
field  were  two  lines  of  barbed  wire  entanglements. 
The  other  prisoners  passed  out  of  sight,  and  the  sen- 
try near  them  called  out  something,  probably  telling 
them  to  hurry  up.  They  started  to  go  up  the  field 
when  suddenly  Mai-tin  staggered  and  clutched  his 
throat.  Then  he  fell  over  baclcwards  and  commenced 
to  have  an  epileptic  fit.  Ernie  said  it  was  the  real- 
est  thing  he'd  ever  seen.  The  sentry  ran  up,  at  the 
same  time  whistling  to  his  comrade.  Ernie  released 
Martin's  collar-band  and  tried  to  help  him.  Both  the 
sentries  approached,  and  Ernie  stood  back.     He  saw 


192  THEM  OTHERS 

them  bending  over  the  prostrate  man,  when  suddenly  a 
most  extraordinary  thing  happened.  Both  their  heads 
were  brought  together  with  fearful  violence.  One  fell 
completely  senseless,  but  the  other  staggered  forward 
and  groped  for  his  rifle. 

When  Ernie  told  this  part  of  the  story  he  kept  dab- 
bing his  forehead  with  his  handkerchief. 

"  I  never  seen  such  a  man  as  Martin  I  don't  think," 
he  said.  "  Lord !  He  had  a  fist  like  a  leg  of  mutton. 
He  laid  'em  out  neatly  on  the  grass,  took  off  their  coats 
and  most  of  their  other  clothes,  and  flung  'em  over  the 
barbed  wire  and  then  swarmed  over  like  a  cat.  I  had 
more  difiiculty,  but  he  got  me  across  too,  somehow. 
Then  we  carted  the  clothes  away  to  the  next  line. 

"  We  got  up  into  a  wood  that  night,  and  Martin 
draws  out  his  compass  and  he  says :  '  We've  got  a  hun- 
dred and  seven  miles  to  do  in  night  shifts,  cully.  And 
if  we  make  a  slip  we're  shot  as  safe  as  knife.'  It 
sounded  the  maddest  scheme  in  the  world,  but  I  some- 
how felt  that  Martin  would  get  through  it.  The  only 
thing  that  saved  me  was  that  —  that  I  didn't  have  to 
think.  I  simply  left  everything  to  him.  If  I'd  started 
thinking  I  could  have  gone  mad.  I  had  it  fixed  in  my 
mind,  '  either  he  does  it  or  he  doesn't  do  it.  I  can't 
help  it.'  I  reely  don't  remember  much  about  that 
journey.  It  was  all  a  dream  like.  We  did  all  our 
travelin'  at  night  by  compass,  and  hid  by  day.  Neither 
of  us  had  a  word  of  German.  But  Gawd's  truth !  that 
man  Martin  was  a  marvel !  He  turned  our  trousers  in- 
side out,   and  made  'em  look  like  ordinary  laborers' 


THEM  OTHERS  193 

trousers.  He  disappeared  the  first  niglit  and  came 
back  with  some  other  old  clothes.  We  lived  mostly  on 
raw  potatoes  we  dug  out  of  the  ground  with  our  hands, 
but  not  always.  One  night  he  came  back  with  a  fowl 
which  he  cooked  in  a  hole  in  the  earth,  making  a  fire 
with  a  flint  and  some  dry  stuff  he  pinched  from  a  farm. 
I  believed  Martin  could  have  stole  an  egg  from  under 
a  hen  without  her  noticing  it.  He  was  the  coolest 
card  there  ever  was.  Of  course  there  was  a  lot  of 
trouble  one  way  and  another.  It  wasn't  always  easy 
to  find  wooded  country  or  protection  of  any  sort.  We 
often  ran  into  people  and  they  stared  at  us,  and  we 
shifted  our  course.  But  I  think  we  were  only  ad- 
dressed three  or  four  times  by  men,  and  then  Martin's 
methods  were  the  simplest  in  the  world.  He  just 
looked  sort  of  blank  for  a  moment,  and  then  knocked 
them  clean  out,  and  bolted.  Of  course  they  were  after 
us  all  the  time,  and  it  was  this  constant  tacking  and 
shifting  ground  that  took  so  long.  Fancy!  he  never 
had  a  map,  you  know,  nothing  but  the  compass.  We 
didn't  know  what  sort  of  country  we  were  coming  to, 
nothing.     We  just  crept  through  the  night  like  cats. 

I  believe  Martin  could  see  in  the  dark He  killed 

a  dog  one  night  with  his  hands.  ...  It  was  neces- 
sary." 

VII 

It  was  impossible  to  discover  from  Emie  how  long 
this  amazing  journey  lasted  —  the  best  part  of  two 
months  I  believe.     He  was  himself  a  little  uncertain 


194:  THEM  OTHEES 

with  regard  to  many  incidents,  whether  thej  were  true 
or  whether  thej  were  hallucinations.  He  suffered 
greatly  from  his  wound  and  had  periods  of  feverish- 
ness.  But  one  morning,  he  said,  Martin  began 
"  prancing."  He  seemed  to  develop  some  curious  sense 
that  they  were  near  the  Dutch  frontier.  And  then, 
according  to  Ernie,  "  a  cat  wasn't  in  it  with  Martin." 

He  was  very  mysterious  about  the  actual  crossing. 
I  gathered  that  there  had  been  some  "  clumsy  "  work 
with  sentries.  It  was  at  that  time  that  Ernie  got  a 
bullet  through  his  arm.  When  he  got  to  Holland  he 
was  very  ill.  It  was  not  that  the  wound  was  a  very 
serious  one,  but,  as  he  explained: 

"  Me  blood  was  in  a  bad  state.  I  was  nearly  down 
and  out." 

He  was  very  kindly  treated  by  some  Dutch  Sisters 
in  a  convent  hospital.  But  he  was  delirious  for  a  long 
time,  and  when  he  became  more  normal  they  wanted 
to  communicate  with  his  people  in  England,  but  this 
didn't  appeal  to  the  dramatic  sense  of  Ernie. 

"  I  thought  I'd  spring  a  surprise  packet  on  you,'' 
he  said,  grinning. 

We  asked  about  Martin,  but  Ernie  said  he  never  saw 
him  again.  He  went  away  while  Ernie  was  delirious, 
and  they  said  he  had  gone  to  Eotterdam  to  take  ship 
somewhere.     He  thought  Holland  was  a  dull  place. 

During  the  relation  of  this  narrative  my  attention 
was  divided  between  watching  the  face  of  Ernie  and  the 
face  of  Ernie's  mother. 

I  am  quite  convinced  that  she  did  not  listen  to  the 


THEM  OTHERS  195 

story  at  all.  She  never  took  her  eyes  from  his  face, 
and  although  her  tongue  was  following  the  flow  of  his 
remarks,  her  mind  was  occupied  with  the  vision  of 
Ernie  when  he  was  a  little  boy,  and  when  he  ordered 
five  tons  of  coal  to  be  sent  to  the  girls'  school. 

When  he  had  finished  she  said : 

"Did  you  meet  either  of  them  young  Stellings?" 

And  Ernie  laughed  rather  uproariously  and  said  no, 
he  didn't  have  the  pleasure  of  renewing  their  acquaint- 
ance. 

On  his  way  home,  it  appeared,  he  had  reported  him- 
self at  headquarters,  and  his  discharge  was  inevitable. 

"  So  now  you'll  be  able  to  finish  the  rabbit-hutch," 
said  Lily's  husband,  and  we  all  laughed  again,  with 
the  exception  of  Mrs.  Ward. 

I  found  her  later  standing  alone  in  the  garden.  It 
was  a  warm  Spring  night.  There  was  no  moon,  but  the 
sky  appeared  restless  with  its  burden  of  trembling  stars. 
She  had  an  old  shawl  drawn  round  her  shoulders,  and 
she  stood  there  very  silently,  with  her  arms  crossed. 

"  Well,  this  is  splendid  news,  Mrs.  Ward,"  I  said. 

She  started  a  little,  and  coughed,  and  pulled  the 
shawl  closer  round  her. 

She  said,  "  Yes,  sir,"  very  faintly. 

I  don't  think  she  was  very  conscious  of  me.  She 
still  appeared  immersed  in  the  contemplation  of  her 
inner  visions.  Her  eyes  settled  upon  the  empty  house 
next  door,  and  I  thought  I  detected  the  trail  of  a  tear 
glistening  on  her   checks.     I   lighted   my   pipe.     We 


196  THEM  OTHEES 

could  hear  Ernie,  and  Lily,  and  Lily's  husband  still 
laughing  and  talking  inside. 

"  She  used  to  make  a  very  good  puddin',''  Mrs.  Ward 
said  suddenly,  at  random.  "  Dried  fruit  inside,  and 
that.     My  Ernie  liked  it  very  much  .  .  ." 

Somewhere  away  in  the  distance  —  probably  out- 
side "  The  Unicorn  " —  some  one  was  playing  a  comet. 
A  train  crashed  by  and  disappeared,  leaving  a  trail  of 
foul  smoke  which  obscured  the  sky.  The  smoke  cleared 
slowly  away.     I  struck  another  match  to  light  my  pipe. 

It  was  quite  true.  On  either  side  of  her  cheek  a 
tear  had  trickled.  She  was  trembling  a  little,  worn 
out  by  the  emotions  of  the  evening. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  unusual  for  Dalston. 

"  It's  all  very  .  .  .  perplexin'  and  that,"  she  said 
quietly. 

And  then  I  knew  for  certain  that  in  that  great  hour 
of  her  happiness  her  mind  was  assailed  by  strange  and 
tremulous  doubts.  She  was  thinking  of  "  them  others  " 
a  little  wistfully.  She  was  doubting  whether  one  could 
rejoice  —  when  the  thing  became  clear  and  actual  to 
one  —  without  sending  out  one's  thoughts  into  the  dark 
garden  to  "  them  others  "  who  were  suifering  too.  And 
she  had  come  out  into  this  little  meager  yard  at  Dalston 
and  had  gazed  through  the  mist  and  smoke  upwards  to 
the  stars,  because  she  wanted  peace  intensely,  and  so  she 
sought  it  within  herself,  because  she  knew  that  real 
peace  is  a  thing  which  concerns  the  heart  alone. 

And  so  I  left  her  standing  there,  and  I  went  my  way, 
for  I  knew  that  she  was  wiser  than  I. 


THE  BENT  TREE 


THE  BENT  TREE 

THE  call  was  irresistible.  I  had  tramped  for 
nearly  two  hours  along  the  white  road,  when 
suddenly  a  long  stretch  of  open  heath  with 
sparsely-scattered  trees  and  high  gorse  bushes  invited 
me  to  break  my  journey  and  to  seek  the  shade  of  a 
wood  that  fringed  it  on  the  western  side.  The  ground 
sloped  upwards  at  a  steep  gradient  and  I  was  soon 
among  the  cool  shadows  of  the  larch  trees.  After 
climbing  for  nearly  half-an-hour  I  found  myself  on  a 
kind  of  plateau,  looking  down  upon  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  sights  in  the  world,  the  Weald  of  Sussex 
trembling  in  a  gray  heat  mist  framed  through  a  thin 
belt  of  trees.  I  pushed  forward,  determining  to  rest 
in  this  most  attractive  spot.  iSTearing  the  fringe  of  this 
little  clump,  I  observed  a  bent  tree  in  a  clearing.  As 
I  approached  it  it  occurred  to  me  that  the  subject  be- 
fore me  was  curiously  like  Corot's  famous  masterpiece. 
It  was  indeed  a  wonderful  and  romantic  spot.  Beneath 
me  a  river  rambled  through  the  meadows  and  became 
lost  in  the  gray-line  distances.  There  was  no  sign  of 
civilization  except  sleepy  cattle  and  the  well-kept  fields, 
and  occasionally  a  village  nestling  in  the  hollow  of  the 
downs.  The  only  sound  was  the  movement  of  leaves, 
the  drone  of  bees  and  the  lowing  of  cattle  in  the  distant 

meadows. 

199 


200  THE  BE:N'T  TREE 

I  sat  down  on  the  bent  tree,  and  as  I  looked  around 
it  occurred  to  me  that  the  spot  I  had  chosen  was  like  a 
little  arbor.  It  might  have  been  the  home  of  some 
God  of  ancient  Britain,  who  could  have  lived  here 
undisturbed  through  all  the  generations.  I  was  won- 
dering whether  any  one  else  had  ever  penetrated  to  this 
glorious  retreat  from  the  world  when  my  eye  caught  a 
small  square  of  white  paper  pinned  on  the  trunk  of  the 
bent  tree,  I  examined  it,  and  lo !  on  it  was  wi'itten  in 
ink :     "  Gone  to  lunch.  Back  in  20  Minutes." 

]^ow  if  there  is  one  thing  that  makes  me  wretchedly 
unhappy  it  is  the  action  of  people  who  find  pleasure  in 
disfiguring  nature,  in  carving  their  initials  on  tree- 
trunks,  in  scattering  paper  and  orange-peel  about  the 
country-side ;  but  somehow,  when  I  caught  sight  of  this 
absurd  city  ofiice  formula  pinned  to  a  tree  in  this  most 
inaccessible  and  romantic  spot,  I  must  confess  that 
"  my  lungs  did  crow  like  Chanticleer."  I  felt  that  here 
indeed  was  the  work  of  a  vast  and  subtle  humorist. 
The  formula  was  so  familiar.  How  often  had  I  waited 
hours  in  murky  passages,  buoyed  up  by  this  engaging 
promise !  It  seemed  so  redolent  of  drab  staircases,  and 
files  and  roll-top  desks,  that  its  very  mention  out  here 
struck  a  fantastic  note.  That  any  one  should  suggest 
that  he  carried  on  a  business  here,  that  his  time  was 
precious,  that  after  gulping  down  a  cup  of  coffee,  he 
would  rush  back,  cope  with  increasing  press  of  affairs, 
seemed  to  me  wonderfully  and  amazingly  funny.  I 
must  acknowledge  that  I  made  myself  rather  ridiculous. 
I  laughed  till  the  tears  streamed  down  my  face,  and  my 


THE  BENT  TREE  201 

only  desire  was  for  a  companion  with  whom  to  share 
the  manna  of  this  gigantic  jest.  I  looked  at  the  card 
again.  It  was  comparatively  clean,  so  I  presumed  that 
the  joke  had  been  perpetrated  quite  recently. 

And  then  I  began  to  wonder  whether  the  jester  would 
return,  whether,  after  all,  the  slip  had  any  significance. 
Was  it  the  message  of  a  poacher  to  a  friend  ?  Or  was 
this  the  secret  meeting  place  of  some  gods  of  High 
Finance?  I  determined  in  any  case  to  wait  the  al- 
lotted span,  and  in  the  meantime  I  stretched  myself  on 
the  stem  of  the  bent  tree,  and,  lighting  a  cigarette,  pre- 
pared to  enjoy  the  tranquillity  of  the  scene. 

It  was  barely  ten  minutes  before  my  siesta  was  dis- 
turbed by  a  man  coming  stealthily  up  the  slope.  He 
was  a  medium-sized,  sallow-faced  fellow  with  small  tired 
eyes  set  in  dark  hollows.  He  was  wearing  a  tail-coat 
and  a  bowler  hat.  He  shuffled  quickly  through  the 
wood,  pushing  the  branches  of  the  trees  away  from  him. 
His  eyes  fixed  me  furtively,  and  as  he  entered  the  little 
arbor,  he  took  off  his  hat  and  fidgeted  with  it,  as  though 
looking  for  a  customary  hook  on  which  to  hang  it. 

"  I  hope  I  haven't  kept  you  waiting  ?  "  was  his  greet- 
ing. 

"  Not  at  all,"  I  found  myself  answering,  for  lack  of 
a  more  suitable  reply. 

"  Did  Binders  send  you  ?  "  he  asked  tentatively. 

"  No,"  I  replied,  pulling  myself  together.  "  I  just 
happened  to  come  here." 

A  look  of  disappointment  passed  over  his  face. 
"  Oh !  "  he  said,   walking  up   and   down.     "  I   some- 


202  THE  BENT  TREE 

times  do  a  bit  with  Binders  and  his  friends,  you  know  " 
—  he  waved  his  arms  va^ely  — "  you  know,  from  Cor- 
lesham." 

Corlesham  I  knew  to  be  a  village  rather  more  than 
two  miles  away,  a  sleepy  hamlet  of  less  than  fifty  souls. 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  I  replied,  more  with  the  idea  of  not  dis- 
couraging him  than  because  any  particular  light  had 
come  to  me. 

He  looked  at  me  searchingly  for  some  moments,  and 
then,  going  over  to  a  thick  gorse-bush,  he  knelt  down 
and  grouped  underneath  and  presently  produced  a 
thick  pile  of  papers  and  circulars. 

"  I  wonder  whether  you  would  like  to  do  anything  in 
these?  These  West  Australians  are  good.  They're 
right  down  to  65.  If  you  can  hold  on,  a  sure  thing. 
If  you  would  like  a  couple  of  thousand  now  .  .  ."  he 
was  nervously  biting  his  nails ;  then  he  said,  "  Could 
you  spare  me  a  cigarette  ?  " 

I  produced  my  case  and  handed  him  one. 

"  Thanks  very  much,"  he  said.  "  They  don't  like  me 
to  smoke  at  home,"  and  he  waved  his  hand  towards  the 
north.  I  followed  the  direction,  and  just  caught  sight 
of  the  top  of  a  gable  of  a  large  red-brick  building 
through  the  trees. 

So  this  was  the  solution ! 

"  This  is  a  glorious  place,"  I  said. 

This  seemed  a  very  harmless  platitude  and  one  not 
likely  to  drive  a  being  to  despair.  But  it  had  a  strange 
effect  on  my  individual,  for  he  sat  down  on  a  broken 
branch  and  burst  into  a  paroxysm  of  invective. 


THE  BENT  TREE  203 


■31 


"  Oh,  Gawd !  "  he  said.  "  I  hate  it,  hate  the  sight  of 
it !  Day  after  day  —  all  the  same !  All  these  blinkin' 
trees    and    fields  —  all    the    same,    nothing    happenin' 


ever." 


I  found  it  very  difficult  to  meet  this  outburst.  I 
could  think  of  nothing  to  say,  so  I  kept  silent.  After 
a  time  he  got  up,  puffing  feverishly  at  the  cigarette,  and 
walked  round  the  little  arbor.  Every  now  and  then  he 
would  stop  and  make  a  gesture  towards  the  shiiibs.  I 
believe  he  was  visualizing  files  and  folios,  ledgers,  and 
typewriters.  He  made  a  movement  of  opening  and 
shutting  drawers. 

"  You've  been  a  bit  run  down,  haven't  you  ?  "  I 
said  at  last,  with  a  feeble  attempt  to  bridge  the  gulf. 

He  looked  at  me  uncertainly,  and  wiped  the  perspi- 
ration from  his  brow. 

"  I  was  unlucky,"  he  said  sullenly.  "  I  worked  like 
a  nigger  for  thirty  years,  but  so  do  the  others  —  lots  of 
them  —  and  they're  all  right.  Just  sheer  bad  luck,  if 
you  know  what  I  mean.  I  can  do  it  now  when  they  let 
me.  That's  why  I  come  here.  Binders  helps  me  a  bit. 
He  sends  me  people.  And,  do  you  know  ?  "  he  whis- 
pered to  me  confidentially,  "  I've  got  the  postman  on 
my  side.  He  delivers  me  letters  here  at  twopence  a 
time.  Look !  here  is  my  mail-box !  "  He  stooped  dovsai 
and  lifted  a  large  stone  and  produced  a  further  pile  of 
correspondence  and  circulars.  "  Would  you  like  to  buy 
some  of  these  Trinidads?     I  could  work  it  for  you." 

He  looked  at  me  anxiously,  and  I  made  some  elabor- 
ate excuse  for  not  seizing  such  a  splendid  opportunity. 


204  THE  BENT  TEEE 

He  sighed,  and  placed  the  papers  back  under  the  stone. 

"  Have  you  ever  dealt  in  big  things  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I'm  afraid  not  —  in  your  sense,"  I  answered,  nur- 
turing an  instinctive  sense  of  outraged  superiority 
against  this  person  who  I  felt  despised  me. 

"  You  know  what  I  mean  by  big  things,"  he  said 
fiercely.  "  Millions  and  millions,  and  the  lives  and 
works  of  millions  of  people !  Do  you  know  why  I 
come  down  here  to  this  rotten  little  clearing  ?  Because 
it  sometimes  reminds  me  of  my  office  off  Throgmorton 
Street.  Look !  It  was  just  this  size.  I  had  my  desk 
over  there.  Horswall,  my  secretary,  had  his  desk  here. 
Here  was  the  fireplace.  The  press  just  here  by  the 
window.  Here  the  shelves  with  all  the  files.  Can  you 
imagine  what  it's  like  to  have  been  there  all  those  years, 
to  have  worked  up  what  I  did  —  all  out  of  nothing, 
mark  you !  —  to  have  got  the  whole  rubber  market  in 
the  hollow  of  my  hand !  —  and  then,  oh,  God !  to  be 
condemned  to  —  this !  "  and  he  made  a  gesture  of  fierce 
contempt  towards  the  Weald  of  Sussex. 

"  For  nearly  two  years  now,"  he  continued,  "  I've 
been  living  in  this  hole." 

"  Nature  has  a  way,"  I  said,  in  my  most  sententious 
manner,  "  of  coming  back  on  us." 

"Nayoher!  Naycher!"  he  almost  screamed. 
"  Don't  talk  to  me  about  Naycher !  What  sort  of 
friend  is  Naycher  to  me  or  you?  Naycher  gives  you 
inclinations,  and  then  breaks  you  for  following  them ! 
Two  men  fall  into  a  pond  —  what  does  Naycher  care 
that  one  man  was  trying  to  drown  his  enemy  while 


THE  BENT  TREE  205 

the  other  was  trying  to  save  a  dog?  They  both  stand 
their  cliance  of  deatli.  Najcher  leads  you  up  blind 
alleys  and  into  marshes  and  lets  you  rot.  Besides,  isn't 
man  Naycher?  Isn't  it  Naycher  for  me  to  work  and 
make  money,  as  it  is  for  these  blighting  birds  to  sing? 
Aren't  roll-top  desks  as  much  Naycher  as  —  these 
blasted  trees  ?  " 

He  blinked  savagely  at  the  surrounding  scene.  The 
smoke  from  a  distant  hamlet  drifted  sleepily  heaven- 
wards, like  incense  to  the  gods  of  the  Downs. 

"  My  father  was  a  turner  in  Walham  Green,  and  he 
apprenticed  me  to  the  joinery,  but  I  had  my  ambitions 
even  in  those  times."  He  nodded  knowingly,  and 
mopped  his  brow.  "  At  eighteen  I  was  a  clerk  in  a 
wholesale  house  in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard.  Eor  three 
years  I  worked  there  underground,  by  artificial  light. 
Then  I  got  made  sub-manager  of  a  wharf  at  the  South 
end  of  Lower  Thames  Street.  I  was  there  for  five 
years,  and  saved  nearly  three  hundred  pounds  out  of  a 
salary  of  £120  a  year.  Then  I  met  Jettison,  and  we 
started  that  oifice  together,  Jettison  &  Gateshead,  Com- 
mission Agents.  Work  and  struggle,  work  and  stnig- 
gle,  year  after  year.  But  it  was  not  till  I  got  on  to 
rubber  that  I  began  to  make  things  move.  That  was 
eight  years  after.  Do  you  remember  the  boom  ?  I  got 
in  with  Gayo,  who  had  lived  out  in  the  Malay  Straits  — 
Knew  everything  —  we  got  the  whole  game  at  our  fin- 
gers' ends.  We  knew  just  when  to  buy  and  just  when 
to  sell.  Do  you  know,  I've  made  as  much  as  four 
thousand  pounds  in  one  afternoon,  just  talking  on  the 


206  THE  BEI^T  TREE 

telephone !  And  we  done  it  all  in  that  little  room  " — 
he  gazed  jealously  round  the  little  arbor  in  the  hills, 
and  scowled  at  me.  Then  he  produced  a  packet  of 
cigarettes  and  lighted  one  from  the  stump  of  the  last. 

"  In  those  days,  through  Gayo's  friends,  we  followed 
the  whole  course  of  the  raw  stuff.  Then  Gayo  went  out 
to  Malay,  and  he  used  to  cable  me  every  few  days,  put- 
ting me  on  to  the  right  thing.  My  God,  he  was  a  man ! 
It  went  on  for  two  years,  when  suddenly  a  cable  came 
to  say  he  was  dead  —  fever,  or  something,  up-country. 
That  was  the  end.  The  slump  came  soon  after.  I 
worked  hard,  but  I  never  got  control  back.  Down  and 
down  and  down  they  went,  as  though  Gayo  was  drag- 
ging them  through  the  earth."  His  lower  lip  trembled 
as  he  rolled  the  emaciated  cigarette  over. 

"  Lord,  what  a  fight  I  had,  though  I  sat  in  that  office 
there,  in  my  shirt-sleeves,  day  and  night  for  months  on 
end,  checking  tapes,  cabling,  lying,  faking,  bluffing " 
—  he  chuckled  with  a  meditative  intensity.  "  I'd  have 
done  it  then,  if  they'd  given  me  time.  But  they  closed 
in;  there  were  two  Scotch  firms,  and  a  man  named 
Klaus.  I  knew  they  meant  to  do  me  down.  There 
was  a  set  against  me.  I  wasn't  there  in  the  end.  I  was 
sitting  in  the  office  one  night.  .  .  ."  He  passed  his 
hand  over  his  brow  and  swept  away  a  wasp  that  had 
settled  there.  He  sat  silent  for  some  moments,  as 
though  trying  to  recall  things,  and  twice  started  to 
speak  without  framing  a  sentence. 

"  My  brother  was  very  good  to  me,"  he  said  sud- 


THE  BENT  TREE  207 

denly,  waving  his  hand  toward  the  red-brick  gable  in 
the  trees.  "  He  was  very  good  to  mo  all  through." 
Then  he  added,  with  a  sort  of  contemptuous  shrug, 
"  In  the  cabinet-making  he  was ;  got  a  little  works  at 
Bow  —  made  about  four  hundred  a  year  —  married, 
and  five  children." 

He  sat  for  some  minutes  with  his  head  in  his  hands, 
and  then  he  sat  up  and  gazed  upon  the  joyous  landscape 
with  unseeing  eyes. 

I  ventured  to  remark,  "  Well,  I'm  sure  this  place 
ought  to  do  you  good."  He  turned  his  melancholy  eyes 
upon  me,  and  sighed. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  after  a  pause.  "  You're  just  the 
sort.  I've  seen  so  many  of  you  about.  Some  of  you 
have  butterfly  nets."  He  kept  repeating  at  intervals, 
"  Butterfly-nets !  "  One  felt  that  the  last  word  in  con- 
tumely had  been  uttered.  He  sank  into  an  apathy  of 
indifference.     Then  he  broke  out  again. 

"  I  tell  you,"  he  uttered  fiercely,  "  that  I  had  millions 
and  millions.  I  controlled  the  work  and  the  lives  of 
millions  of  men,  and  you  come  here  and  talk  to  me 
of  Naycher.  Look  at  these  damned  trees!  They  go 
green  in  the  summer,  yellow  in  the  autumn,  and  bare 
in  the  winter.  Year  after  year,  exactly  the  same  thing, 
and  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  I'm  sick  of  the  sight  of 
them.  But  look  at  men!  Think  of  their  lives,  the 
change  and  variety  !  What  they  can  do !  Their  clothes, 
their  furniture,  their  houses,  their  cities!  Think  of 
their  power !     The  power  of  making  and  marring !  " 


208  THE  BENT  TEEE 

"  You  mean  the  power  of  buying  and  selling,"  I 
ventured. 

"  Yes,  that's  just  it !  "  he  said,  feeling  that  he  was 
converting  me. 

"  The  power  of  buying  and  selling !  Of  making  men 
rich  or  poor !  "  He  stood  up  and  waved  his  thin  arms 
and  gazed  wildly  round  him.  "  !N'ot  chasing  butter- 
flies!" 

At  that  moment  we  both  became  aware  that  a  third 
person  was  on  the  scene.  He  was  a  well  set-up  man, 
with  broad  shoulders  and  narrow  hips.  He  was  dressed 
in  a  dark-blue  serge  suit  and  a  tweed  cap.  He  stepped 
quietly  through  the  trees,  and  went  up  to  my  compan- 
ion, and  said: 

"  Ah !  there  you  are,  Mr.  Gateshead.  I'm  afraid  it's 
almost  time  for  your  afternoon  nap,  sir."  And  then, 
turning  to  me,  he  nodded  and  remarked :  "  A  warm 
afternoon,  sir !  "  He  spoke  with  a  quiet,  suave  voice 
that  somehow  conveyed  the  feeling  of  the  "  iron  hand 
in  the  velvet  glove."  His  voice  seemed  to  have  a  sed- 
ative effect  on  Mr.  Gateshead.  My  companion  did  not 
look  at  him,  but  he  seemed  to  shrink  within  himself. 
A  certain  flush  that  had  accompanied  his  excitement 
vanished,  and  his  face  looked  old  and  set.  He  drew 
his  narrow  shoulders  together  and  his  flgure  bent.  He 
stood  abstractedly  for  a  few  moments,  gazing  at  the 
trees  around  him,  and  then,  with  a  vague  gesture  that 
was  characteristic  of  him,  he  clutched  the  lapels  of  his 
coat,  and  with  his  head  bent  forward  he  walked  away 
towards  the  building.     He  did  not  cast  a  glance  in  my 


THE  BENT  TREE  209 

direction,  and  the  man  in  the  serge  suit  nodded  to  me 
and  followed  him  leisurely. 

I  clambered  down  the  slope  of  the  wood,  and  for 
some  reason  felt  happy  to  get  once  more  upon  the 
road. 

About  half  a  mile  from  Corlesham  I  met  the  post- 
man coming  up  the  hill,  wheeling  his  bicycle.  He  was 
a  sandy-haired  man,  splendidly  Saxon,  with  gray-blue 
eyes  and  broad  mouth.  I  asked  him  if  there  was  a  foot- 
path to  Corlesham,  and  he  directed  me. 

"  Do  you  have  a  long  round  ? ''  I  asked. 

"  Three  or  four  mile,  maybe,"  he  said,  looking  at  me 
narrowly. 

"  It's  a  good  pull  up  to  the  Institution,"  I  ventured. 

"  What  institution  might  that  be  ?  "  he  said,  and  his 
mild  blue  eyes  disarmed  me  with  their  ingenuous- 
ness. 

"  The  house  with  the  three  red  gables,"  I  answered. 

"  Oh !  "  came  the  reply.  "  You  mean  old  Gates- 
head's." 

"  Does  he  own  it  ?  "  I  said  incredulously. 

"  Ay,  and  he  could  own  six  others  for  all  the  dif- 
ference it  would  make  to  his  money.  He  owns  half  the 
county." 

"  And  yet  what  a  strange  idea,"  I  murmured  in- 
sinuatingly. "  To  own  a  large  house  and  yet  to  have 
one's  letters  delivered  in  a  wood!  " 

The  postman  swung  his  bag  into  a  more  comfortable 
position  and  looked  across  his  machine  at  me  with  a 
grin. 


210  THE  BENT  TREE 

"  Those  as  has  money  can  afford  to  have  any  ideas 
they  like,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  I'm  afraid  his  money  doesn't  make  him  very 
happy,"  I  ventured,  still  groping  for  further  enlighten- 
ment. 

The  postman  gave  his  right  pedal  a  vigorous  twirl  as 
a  hint  of  departure.  He  then  took  out  a  packet  of 
Navy  Cuty  cigarettes  and  lighted  one.  This  action 
seemed  to  stimulate  his  mental  activities,  and  he  leant 
on  the  handle-bars  and  said : 

"  Ay,  if  one  has  no  money  maybe  one  can  make  one- 
self happy  thinking  one  has.  And  if  one  has  money, 
may  be  one  can  make  oneself  happy  by  thinking  one 
hasn't."  He  blinked  at  me,  and  then  added,  by  way  of 
solving  all  life's  mysteries :  "  If  one  —  puts  too  much 
store  by  these  things." 

I  could  find  no  remark  to  complement  the  postman's 
sententious  conclusions,  and,  dismissing  me  with  a  nod, 
he  mounted  his  bicycle  and  rode  off  up  the  hill. 


THE  GREAT  UNIMPRESSIONABLE 


211 


THE  GREAT  UNIMPRESSIONABLE 

NED  Picklekin  was  a  stolid  chunk  of  a  young 
man,  fair,  blue-eyed,  with  his  skin  beaten  to 
a  uniform  tint  of  warm  red  by  the  sun  and 
wind.  For  he  was  the  postman  at  the  village  of  Ashal- 
ton.  Except  for  two  hours  in  the  little  sorting-office, 
he  spent  the  whole  day  on  his  bicycle,  invariably  accom- 
panied by  his  Irish  terrier,  Toffee.  Toffee  was  as  well 
known  on  the  countryside  as  Ned  himself.  He  took 
the  business  of  delivering  letters  as  seriously  as  his 
master.  He  trotted  behind  the  bicycle  with  his  tongue 
out,  and  wai*,ed  panting  outside  the  gates  of  gardens 
while  the  important  government  business  was  trans- 
acted. He  never  barked,  and  had  no  time  for  fighting 
common,  unofficial  dogs.  When  the  letters  were  de- 
livered, his  master  would  return  to  his  bicycle,  and 
say :  "  Coom  ahn,  boy !  "  and  Toffee  would  immedi- 
ately jump  up,  and  fall  into  line.  They  were  great 
companions. 

Ned  lived  with  his  mother,  and  also  he  walked  out 
with  a  young  lady.  Her  name  was  Ettie  Skinner,  and 
she  was  one  of  the  three  daughters  of  old  Charlie  Skin- 
ner, the  corn-merchant.  Charlie  Skinner  had  a  little 
establishment  in  the  station-yard.  He  was  a  widower, 
and  he  and  his  three  daughters  lived  in  a  cottage  in 

Neap's  Lane.     It  was  very  seldom  necessary  to  deliver 

213 


214      THE  GEEAT  UNIMPEESSIONABLE 

letters  at  the  Skinners'  cottage,  but  every  morning  N^ed 
had  to  pass  up  Neap's  Lane,  and  so,  when  he  arrived 
at  the  cottage,  he  dismounted,  and  rang  his  bicycle  bell. 
The  signal  was  understood  by  Ettie,  who  immediately 
ran  out  to  the  gate,  and  a  conversation  somewhat  on  this 
pattern  usually  took  place: 

''Hulloa!" 
Hulloa!" 

"All  right?" 
Ay." 

"Busy?" 

"  Ay.     Mendin'  some  old  cla'es." 
Oo-ay !  " 

Looks  like  mebbe  a  shower." 
Mebbe." 
Coomin'  along  to-night  ?  " 

"  Ay,  if  it  doan't  rain." 

"Well,  so  long!" 

"  So  long,  :N'ed." 

In  the  evenings  the  conversation  followed  a  very 
similar  course.  They  waddled  along  the  lanes  side  by 
side,  and  occasionally  gave  each  other  a  punch.  N^ed 
smoked  his  pipe  all  the  time,  and  Toffee  was  an  unem- 
barrassed cicerone.  He  was  a  little  jealous  of  this  un- 
necessary female,  but  he  behaved  with  a  resigned  ac- 
quiescence. His  master  could  do  no  wrong.  His 
master  was  a  god,  a  being  apart  from  all  others. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  Ned  was  a  romantic  lover.  He 
was  solemn,  direct,  imperturbable.  He  was  a  Saxon 
of  Saxons,  matter-of-fact,  incorruptible,  unimaginative, 


THE  GREAT  UNIMPRESSIONABLE      215 

strong-willed,  conscientious,  not  very  ambitious,  and 
suspicious  of  the  unusual  and  the  unknown.  ^Vhen 
the  war  broke  out,  he  said : 

"  Ay,  but  this  is  a  bad  business !  " 

And  tlion  he  thought  about  it  for  a  month.  At 
the  end  of  that  time  he  made  up  his  mind  to  join. 
He  rode  up  Neap's  Lane  one  morning  and  rang  his  bell. 
When  Ettie  appeared  the  usual  conversation  underwent 
a  slight  variant : 

"Hulloa!" 

"Hulloa!" 

"All  right?" 

"  Ay." 

"  Doin'  much  ?  " 

"  Oo  —  mendin'   pa's  night-gown." 

"  Oh!     I  be  goin'  to  jine  up." 

"Oo  — oh!     Be'ee?" 

"  Ay." 

"  When  be  goin'  ?  " 

"  Monday  with  Dick  Thursby  and  Len  Cotton.  An' 
I  think  young  Walters,  and  Bibbie  Short  mebbe." 

"Oh,  I  say!" 

"  Ay.     Comin'    along  to-night  ?  " 

"  Av,  if  it  doan't  rain." 

"  Well,  see  you  then." 

"  So  long,  Ned." 

On  the  following  Monday  Ned  said  good-by  to  his 
mother,  and  sweetheart,  and  to  Toffee,  and  he  and  the 
other  four  boys  walked  over  to  the  recruiting  office  at 
Carchester.     They  were  drafted  into  the  same  unit,  and 


216      THE  GREAT  UNIMPRESSIONABLE 

sent  lip  to  Yorkshire  to  train.  (Yorkshire  being  one 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  away  was  presumably  the  most 
convenient  and  suitable  spot.) 

They  spent  five  months  there,  and  then  Len  Cotton 
was  transferred  to  the  Machine  Gun  Corps,  and  the 
other  four  were  placed  in  an  infantry  regiment  and 
sent  out  to  India.  They  did  not  get  an  opportunity 
of  returning  to  Ashalton,  but  the  night  before  he  left 
Ned  wrote  to  his  mother: 

"  Dear  Mother,  I  think  we  are  off  to-morrow.  They 
don't  tell  us  where  we  are  going  but  they  seem  to  think 
it's  India  because  of  the  Eastern  kit  served  out  and  so 
on.  Everything  all  right,  the  grub  is  fine.  Young 
Walters  has  gone  sick  with  a  bile  on  his  neck.  Hope 
you  are  all  right.  See  Toffee  dont  get  into  Mr.  Mears 
yard  for  this  is  about  the  time  he  puts  down  that  pison 
for  the  rats.     Everything  O.  K.       Love  from  Ned." 

He  wrote  a  very  similar  letter  to  Ettie,  only  leaving 
out  the  instructions  about  Toffee  and  adding  "  dont 
get  overdoing  it  now  the  warm  weathers  on." 

They  touched  at  Gibraltar,  Malta,  Alexandria  and 
Aden.  At  all  these  places  he  merely  sent  the  cryptic 
postcard.  He  did  not  write  a  letter  again  until  he  had 
been  three  weeks  up  in  the  hills  in  India.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  it  had  been  a  terribly  rough  passage  nearly  all 
the  way,  especially  in  the  Meditei*ranean,  and  nearly 
all  the  boys  had  been  sea-sick  most  of  the  time.  Ned 
had  been  specially  bad  and  in  the  Red  Sea  had  de- 
veloped a  slight  fever.  In  India  he  had  been  sent  to  a 
rest-camp  up  in  the  hills.     He  wrote: 


THE  GREAT  UNIMPRESSIONABLE      217 

"  Dear  mother,  everything  all  right.  The  gnib  is 
fine.  I  went  a  bit  sick  coming  out  but  nothing.  Quite 
O.  K.  now.  This  is  a  funny  place.  The  people  would 
make  you  laugh  to  look  at.  We  beat  the  2nd  Royal 
Scots  by  two  goals  to  one.  I  wasn't  playing  but  Binnie 
played  a  fine  game  at  half  back.  He  stopped  their 
center  forward,  an  old  league  player,  time  and  again. 
Hope  you  are  keeping  all  right.  Does  Henry  Thatcham 
take  Toffee  out  regler.  Everything  serene.  Love  from 
Ned." 

In  this  letter  the  words  "  2nd  Royal  Scots  "  were  de- 
leted by  the  censor. 

India  at  that  time  was  apparently  a  kind  of  training- 
ground  for  young  recniits.  There  were  a  few  recal- 
citrant hill-tribes  upon  whom  to  practice  the  latest  de- 
velopments of  militai-y  science,  and  Ned  was  mixed  up 
in  one  or  two  of  these  little  scraps^  He  proved  himself 
a  good  soldier,  doing  precisely  what  he  was  told  and 
being  impervious  to  danger.  They  were  five  months 
in  India,  and  then  the  regiment  was  suddenly  drafted 
back  to  Egypt.  Big  things  were  afoot.  No  one  knew 
what  was  going  to  happen.  They  spent  ten  days  in  a 
camp  near  Alexandria.  They  were  then  detailed  for 
work  in  connection  with  the  protection  of  the  banks  of 
the  Canal,  and  Ned  was  stationed  near  the  famous 
pyramid  of  Gizeh.     He  wrote  to  his  mother: 

"  Dear  mother,  eveiything  all  right.  Pretty  quiet  so 
far.  This  is  a  funny  place.  Young  Walters  has  gone 
sick  again.  We  had  the  regimental  sports  Thursday. 
Me  and  Bert  Carter  won  the  three-legged  race.     The 


218      THE  GEEAT  UNIMPRESSIONABLE 

grub  is  fine  and  we  get  dates  and  figs  for  nuts.  Hope 
your  cold  is  all  right  by  now.  Thanks  for  the  parcel 
which  I  got  on  the  27th.  Everything  all  right.  Glad 
to  hear  about  Mrs.  Parsons  having  the  twins  and  that. 
Glad  to  hear  Toffee  all  right  and  so  with  love  your 
loving  son  Ned." 

They  had  not  been  at  Gizeh  for  more  than  a  week 
before  they  were  sent  back  to  Alexandria  and  placed  on 
a  transport.  In  fifteen  days  after  touching  at  Imbros, 
Ned  and  his  companions  found  themselves  on  Gallipoli 
peninsula.  Heavy  fighting  was  in  progress.  They 
were  rushed  up  to  the  front  line.  For  two  days 
and  nights  they  were  in  action  and  their  numbers  were 
reduced  to  one-third  of  their  original  size.  For  thirty 
hours  they  were  without  water  and  were  being  shelled 
by  gas,  harried  by  flame-throwers,  blasted  by  shrapnel 
and  high-explosive.  At  the  end  of  that  time  they 
crawled  back  to  the  beach  at  night  through  prickly 
bramble  which  poisoned  them  and  set  up  septic  wounds 
if  it  scratched  them.  They  lay  there  dormant  for  two 
days,  but  still  under  shell-fire,  and  then  were  hurriedly 
reformed  into  a  new  regiment,  and  sent  to  another 
part  of  the  line.  This  went  on  continuously  for  three 
weeks,  and  then  a  terrible  storm  and  flood  occurred. 
Hundreds  of  men  —  some  alive  and  some  partly  alive 
—  were  drowned  in  the  ravines.  Ned  and  his  com- 
pany lost  all  their  kit,  and  slept  in  water  for  three 
nights  running.  At  the  end  of  four  weeks  he  obtained 
five  days'  rest  at  the  base.     He  wrote  to  Ettie : 

"  Dear  Ettie,  A  long  time  since  I  had  a  letter  from 


THE  GREAT  UNIMPRESSIONABLE      210 

you.  IIopo  all  right.  Everything  all  right  so  far. 
We  had  a  bad  storm  but  the  weather  now  keeps  fine. 
Had  a  fine  bath  this  morning.  There  is  a  man  in  our 
company  would  make  you  laugh.  He  is  an  Irish- 
Canadian.  He  plays  the  penny  whissle  fine  and  sings 
a  bit  too.  Sorry  to  say  young  Walters  died.  He  got 
enteric  and  phewmonnia  and  so  on.  I  expect  his  people 
will  have  heard  all  right.  How  is  old  Mrs.  Walters? 
Dick  Thursby  got  a  packet  too  and  Mrs.  Quinby's  boy 
I  forget  his  name.  How  are  them  white  rabbits  of 
yours.  I  met  a  feller  as  used  to  take  the  milk  round  for 
Mr.  Brand  up  at  Bodes  farm.  Funny  wasn't  it.  Well 
nothing  more  now.  I  hope  this  finds  you  as  it  leaves 
me  your  affectionate  Ned." 

Ned  was  three  months  on  Gallipoli  peninsula,  but 
he  left  before  the  evacuation.  During  the  whole  of 
that  time  he  was  never  not  under  shell-fire.  He  took 
part  in  seven  attacks.  On  one  occasion  he  went  over 
the  top  with  twelve  hundred  others,  of  whom  only  one 
hundred  and  seven  returned.  Once  he  was  knocked 
unconscious  by  a  mine  explosion  which  killed  sixty- 
seven  men.  At  the  end  of  that  period  he  was  shot 
through  the  back  by  a  sniper.  He  was  put  in  a  dress- 
ing-station, and  a  gentleman  in  a  white  overall  came  and 
stuck  a  needle  into  his  chest  and  left  him  there  in  a 
state  of  nudity  for  twelve  hours.  Work  at  the  field 
hospitals  was  very  congested  just  then.  He  became  a 
bit  delirious  and  was  eventually  put  on  a  hospital  ship 
with  a  little  tag  tied  to  him.  After  some  vague  and 
restless  period  he  found  himself  again  at  Imbros  and  in 


220     THE  GEEAT  UNIMPRESSIONAELE 

a  very  comfortable  hospital.  He  stayed  there  six  weeks 
and  his  wound  proved  to  be  slight.  The  bone  was  only 
grazed.     He  wrote  to  his  mother : 

"  Dear  mother,  Everything  all  right.  I  had  a  scratch 
but  nothing.  I  hope  you  enjoyed  the  flower  show. 
How  funny  meetings  Mrs.  Perks.  We  have  a  fine  time 
here.  The  grub  is  fine.  Sorry  to  say  Binnie  Short 
went  under.  He  got  gassed  one  night  when  he  hadnt 
his  mask  on.  The  weather  is  mild  and  pleasant.  Glad 
to  hear  Henry  takes  Toffee  out  all  right.  Have  you 
heard  from  Ettie  for  some  time.  We  had  a  fine  concert 
on  Friday.  A  chap  played  the  flute  lovely.  Hope  you 
are  now  all  right  again.     Your  loving  son  Ked." 

In  bed  in  the  hospital  at  Imbros  a  bright  idea  oc- 
curred to  ISTed.  He  made  his  will.  Such  an  idea 
would  never  have  occurred  to  him  had  it  not  been 
forced  upon  him  by  the  unusual  experiences  of  the  past 
year.  He  suddenly  realized  that  of  all  the  boys  who 
had  left  the  village  with  him  only  Len  Cotton,  as  far 
as  he  knew,  remained.  So  one  night  he  took  a  blunt- 
pointed  pencil,  and  laboriously  wrote  on  the  space  for 
the  will  at  the  end  of  his  pay-book: 

"  I  leave  everything  I've  got  to  my  mother  Anne 
Picklekin,  including  Toffee.  I  hope  Henry  Thatcham 
will  continue  to  look  after  Toffee  except  the  silver  bowl 
which  I  won  at  the  rabbit  show  at  Oppleford.  This  I 
leave  to  Ettie  Skinner  as  a  memorial  of  me." 

One  day  ISTed  enjoyed  a  great  excitement.  He  was 
under  discharge  from  the  hospital,  and  a  rimior  got 
round  that  he  and  some  others  were  to  be  sent  back 


THE  GREAT  UNIJ\rPKESS10NABLE      221 

to  Enn;laii(l.  Tlioy  hung  about  the  island  for  three  days, 
and  were  then  packed  into  an  Italian  fruit-steamer  — 
which  had  been  converted  into  a  transport.  It  was  very 
overcrowded  and  the  weather  was  hot.  They  sailed  one 
night  and  reached  another  island  before  dawn.  They 
spent  three  weeks  doing  this.  They  only  sailed  at 
night,  for  the  seas  about  there  were  reported  to  be  in- 
fested with  submarines.  Every  morning  they  put  in  at 
some  island  in  the  Greek  Archipelago,  or  at  some  port 
on  the  mainland.  At  one  place  there  was  a  terrible 
epidemic  of  illness,  owing  to  some  Greek  gentlemen 
having  sold  the  men  some  doped  wine.  Fifteen  of 
them  died.  Ned  escaped  from  this  as  he  had  not  had 
any  of  the  wine.  He  was  practically  a  teetotaler  ex- 
cept for  an  occasional  glass  of  beer.  But  he  was  far 
from  happy  on  that  voyage.  The  seas  were  rough  and 
the  transport  ought  to  have  been  bi'oken  up  years  ago, 
and  this  didn't  seem  to  be  the  right  route  for  England. 

At  length  they  reached  a  large  port  called  Salonika. 
They  never  went  into  the  town,  but  were  sent  straight 
out  to  a  camp  in  the  hills  ten  miles  away.  The  country 
was  very  wild  and  rugged,  and  there  was  great  difficulty 
with  water.  Everything  was  polluted  and  malarial. 
There  was  very  little  fighting  apparently,  but  plenty  of 
sickness.  He  found  himself  in  a  Scottish  regiment. 
At  least,  it  was  called  Scottish,  but  the  men  came  from 
all  parts  of  the  world,  from  Bow  Street  to  Hong-Kong. 

There  was  to  be  no  Blighty  after  all,  but  still  — 
there  it  was!  He  continued  to  drill,  and  march,  and 
clean  his  rifle  and  play  the  mouth-organ  and  football. 


222     THE  GEEAT  UNIMPEESSIONABLE 

And  then  one  morning  he  received  a  letter  from  his 
mother,  which  had  followed  him  from  Imbros.  It  ran 
as  follows : 

"  My  dear  IS^ed,  How  are  you,  dear  ?  I  hope  you 
keep  all  right.  My  corf  is  now  pretty  middlin  other- 
wise nothin  to  complain  of.  ISTow  dear  I  have  to  tell 
you  something  which  grieves  me  dear.  Im  afraid  its 
no  good  keepin  it  from  you  ony  longer  dear.  Ettie  is 
walhin  out  ivith  another  feller.  A  feller  from  the  air 
station  called  Alf  Mullet.  I  taxed  her  with  it  and  she 
says  yes  it  is  so  dear.  ISTow  dear  you  mustnt  take  on 
about  this.  I  told  her  off  I  says  it  was  a  disgraceful 
and  you  out  there  fightin  for  your  country  and  that. 
And  she  says  nothin  excep  yes  there  it  was  and  she 
couldnt  help  it  and  her  feelins  had  been  changed  you 
being  away  and  that.  ISTow  dear  you  must  put  a  good 
face  on  this  and  remember  theres  just  as  good  fish  in 
the  sea  as  ever  came  out  of  it  as  they  say  dear.  One  of 
Mr.  Bean's  rabits  died  Sunday  they  think  it  overeating 
you  never  know  with  rabits.  Keep  your  feet  warm  dear 
I  hope  you  got  them  socks  I  sent.  Lizzie  was  at  chapel 
Sunday  she  had  on  her  green  lawn  looked  very  nice  I 
thought  but  I  wish  she  wouldn't  get  them  spots  on  her 
face  perhaps  its  only  the  time  of  year.  Toffee  is  all 
right  he  had  a  fight  with  a  hairdale  Thursday  Henry- 
says  got  one  of  his  eres  bitten  but  nothin  serous.  So 
now  dear  I  must  close  as  Mrs.  Minchin  wants  me  to  go 
and  take  tea  with  her  has  Florrie  has  gone  to  the  school 
treat  at  Furley.  And  so  dear  with  love  your  lovin 
Mother." 


THE  GREAT  UNIMPRESSIONABLE      223 

Wlicn  he  had  finished  reading  this  letter  he  uttered 
an  excLimation,  and  a  cockney  friend  sitting  on  the 
ground  by  his  side  remarked : 

"  What's  the  matter,  mate  ?  " 

Ned  took  a  packet  of  cigarettes  out  of  his  pocket  and 
liffhted  one.     Then  he  said : 

"  My  girl's  jilted  me." 

The  cockney  laughed  and  said: 

"  Gawd !  is  that  all  ?  I  thought  it  was  somthin' 
serious !  " 

He  was  cleaning  his  rifle  M'ith  an  oil  rag,  and  he 
continued :  "  Don't  you  worry,  mate.  "Women  are  like 
those  blinkin'  little  Greek  islands,  places  to  call  at  but 
not  to  stay.     What  was  she  like  ?  " 

"  Oo  —  all  right." 

"  Pretty  ?  " 

"Ay  — middlin'." 

"  'As  she  got  another  feller  ?  " 

"  Ay." 

"  Oh,  well,  it's  all  in  the  gime.  If  you  will  go 
gallivanting  about  these  foreign  parts  en  joy  in'  yerself, 
what  d'yer  expect?  What  time's  kick  off  this  after- 
noon ?  " 

"  Two  o'clock." 

"  Reckon  we're  goin'  to  win  ?  " 

"  I  doan't  know.  'Pends  upon  whether  McFarlane 
turns  out." 

"  Yus,  'e's  a  wonderful  player.  Keeps  the  team  to- 
gether like." 

"Ay." 


224     THE  GREAT  UNIMPRESSIONABLE 

"  Are  you  playin'  ?  " 

"  Ay.     I'm  playin'  right  half." 

"  Are  yer  ?  Well,  you'll  'ave  yer  'ands  full.  You'll 
'ave  to  tackle  Curly  Snider." 

"  Ay." 

Ned's  team  won  the  match  that  afternoon,  and  he 
wrote  to  his  mother  afterwards : 

"  Dear  mother,  We  just  had  a  great  game  against 
15/Royal  South  Hants.  McFarlane  played  center  half 
and  he  was  in  great  form.  We  led  2-0  at  half  time 
and  they  scored  one  at  the  beginnin  of  the  second  half 
but  Davis  got  throu  towards  the  end  and  we  beat  them 
by  3-1j  I  was  playin  quite  a  good  game  I  think  but 
McFarlane  is  a  real  first  class.  I  got  your  letter  all 
right.  I  was  sorry  about  Ettie  but  of  course  she  knows 
what  she  wants  I  spose.  You  dont  say  what  Toffee 
did  to  the  other  dog.  You  might  tell  Henry  to  let 
me  have  a  line  about  this.  Fancy  Liz  being  at  chapel. 
I  almos  forget  what  shes  like.  Everything  is  all  right. 
The  grub  is  fine.  This  is  a  funny  place  all  rocks  and 
planes.  The  Greeks  are  a  stinkin  lot  for  the  most  part 
so  now  must  close  with  love,  Ned." 

Having  completed  this  letter,  Ned  got  out  his  pay- 
book  and  revised  his  will.  Ettie  Skinner  was  now  de- 
leted, and  the  silver  bowl  won  at  the  rabbit-show  at 
Oppleford  was  bequeathed  to  Henry  Thatcham  in  con- 
sideration of  his  services  in  taking  Toffee  out  for  runs. 

They  spent  a  long  and  tedious  eight  months  on  the 
plains  of  Macedonia,  dodging  malaria  and  bullets, 
cracking  vermin  in  their  shirts,  playing  football,  rag- 


THE  GREAT  UXIMPRESSIOXABLE      225 

ging,  quarreling,  drilling,  maneuvering  and,  most  de- 
moralizing of  all,  hanging  about.  And  then  a  joyous 
day  dawned.  This  liyhrid  Scottish  regiment  was 
ordered  home !  They  left  Salonika  in  a  French  liner 
and  ten  davs  later  arrived  at  Malta.  But  in  the  mean- 
time  the  gods  had  been  busy.  The  wireless  operators 
had  been  flashing  their  mysterious  signals  all  over  the 
Mediterranean  and  the  Atlantic.  At  Malta  the  order 
was  countermanded.  They  remained  there  long  enough 
to  coal,  but  the  men  were  not  even  given  shore  leave. 
The  next  day  they  turned  eastwards  again  and  made 
for  Alexandria. 

The  cockney  was  furious.  He  had  the  real  genius 
of  the  grouser,  with  the  added  venom  of  the  man  who 
in  the  year  of  grace  had  lived  by  his  wits  and  now  found 
his  wits  enclosed  in  an  iron  cylinder.  It  was  a  dis- 
gusting anti-climax. 

"When  I  left  that  filthy  'ole,"  he  exclaimed,  "I 
swore  to  God  I'd  try  and  never  remember  it  again. 
And  now  I'm  darned  if  we  ain't  goin'  back  there.  As 
if  once  ain't  enough  in  a  man's  lifetime!  It's  like  the 
blooming  cat  with  the  blankety  mouse !  " 

"  Eh,  well,  mon,"  interjected  a  Scotsman,  "  there's 
ane  thing.     They  canna  keel  ye  no  but  once." 

"  It  ain't  the  killing  I  mind.  It's  the  blooming 
mucking  about.     A^Tiat  d'yer  say,  Pickles?  " 

"  Ah,  well  .  .  .  there  it  is,"  said  Ned  sententiously. 

There  was  considerable  "  mucking  about  "  in  Egypt, 
and  then  they  started  off  on  a  long  trek  through  the 
desert,  marching  on  barbed-wire  mesh  that  had  been  laid 


226      THE  GREAT  UNIMPEESSIO^ABLE 

down  by  the  engineers.  There  was  occasional  skir- 
mishing, sniping,  fleas,  delay,  and  general  discomfort. 
One  day,  in  Southern  Palestine,  ISTed  was  out  with  a 
patrol  party  just  before  sun-down.  They  were  trekking 
across  the  sand  between  two  oases  when  two  shots  rang 
out.  Five  of  the  party  fell.  The  rest  were  exposed 
in  the  open  to  foes  firing  from  concealment  on  two  sides. 
The  position  was  hopeless.  They  threw  up  their  hands. 
Two  more  shots  rang  out  and  the  cockney  next  to  ISTed 
fell  forward  with  a  bullet  through  his  throat.  Then 
dark  figures  came  across  the  sands  towards  them. 
There  were  only  three  left,  Ned,  a  Scotsman,  and  a  boy 
who  had  been  a  clerk  in  a  drapery  store  at  Lewisham 
before  the  war.     He  said : 

"  Well,  are  they  going  to  kill  us  ?  " 

"  1^0,"  said  the  Scotsman.  "  Onyway,  keep  your 
hands  weel  up  and  pray  to  God." 

A  tall  man  advanced,  and  to  their  relief  beckoned 
them  to  follow.     They  fell  into  single  file. 

"  These  are  no  Tur-r-ks  at  all,"  whispered  the  Scots- 
man.    "  They're  some  nomadic  Arab  tribe." 

The  Scotsman  had  attended  evening  continuation 
classes  at  Peebles,  and  was  rather  fond  of  the  word 
"  nomadic." 

They  were  led  to  one  of  the  oases,  and  instructed  to 
sit  down.  The  Arabs  sat  round  them,  armed  with  rifles. 
They  remained  there  till  late  at  night,  when  another 
party  arrived,  and  a  rope  was  produced.  They  were 
handcuffed  and  braced  together,  and  then  by  gesticula- 
tion told  to  march.     They  trailed  across  the  sand  for 


THE  GREAT  UNIMPRESSIONABLE      227 

three  hours  aud  a  half.  There  was  no  moon,  but  the 
night  was  tolerably  clear.  At  length  they  came  to 
another  oasis,  and  were  bidden  to  halt.  They  sat  on 
the  sand  for  twenty  minutes,  and  one  of  the  Arabs  gave 
them  some  water.  Then  a  whistle  blew,  and  they  were 
kicked  and  told  to  follow.  The  party  wended  its  way 
through  a  grove  of  cedar  trees..  It  was  pitch  dark. 
At  last  they  came  to  a  halt  by  a  large  hut.  There  was 
much  coming  and  going.  When  they  entered  tlie  hut, 
in  charge  of  their  guard,  they  were  blinded  by  a  strong 
light.  The  hut  was  comfortably  furnished  and  lighted 
by  electric  light.  At  a  table  sat  a  stout,  pale-faced  man, 
with  a  dark  mustache  —  obviously  a  German.  By  his 
side  stood  a  tall  German  orderly.  The  German  official 
looked  tired  and  bored.  He  glanced  at  the  prisoners 
and  drew  some  papers  towards  him. 

"  Come  and  stand  here  in  front  of  my  desk,"  he  said 
in  English. 

They  advanced,  and  he  looked  at  each  one  carefully. 
Then  he  yawned,  dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink,  tried  it  on 
a  sheet  of  paper,  swore,  and  inserted  a  fresh  nib. 

"  Now,  you,"  he  said,  addressing  the  Scotsman, 
when  he  had  completed  these  operations.  "  Name,  age, 
profession,  regiment.     Smartly." 

He  obtained  all  these  particulars  from  each  man. 
Then  he  got  up  and  came  round  the  table,  and  looking 
right  into  the  eyes  of  tlie  clerk  from  Lewisham,  he 
said: 

"  We  know,  of  course,  in  which  direction  your  brigade 
is  advancing,  but  from  which  direction  is  the  brigade 


228      THE  GREAT  UNIMPRESSIONABLE 

commanded  by  Major-General  Forbes  Fittlewortli  ad- 
vancing ?  " 

The  three  of  them  all  knew  this,  for  it  was  common 
gossip  of  the  march.  But  the  clerk  from  Lewisham 
said : 

"  I  don't  know." 

The  German  turned  from  him  to  the  Scotsman  and 
repeated  the  question. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  the  Scotsman. 

"  From  which  direction  is  the  brigade  commanded 
by  Major-General  Forbes  Fittleworth  advancing  ?  "  he 
said  to  ISTed. 

"  Naw !     I  doan't  know,"  replied  Ned. 

And  then  a  horrible  episode  occurred.  The  German 
suddenly  whipped  out  a  revolver  and  shot  the  clerk 
from  Lewisham  through  the  body  twice.  He  gave  a 
faint  cry  and  crumpled  forward.  Without  taking  the 
slightest  notice  of  this  horror,  the  German  turned  de- 
liberately and  held  the  revolver  pointed  at  Ned's  face. 
In  a  perfectly  unimpassioned,  toneless  voice  he  re- 
peated : 

"  From  which  direction  is  the  brigade  commanded 
by  Major-General  Forbes  Fittleworth  advancing?  " 

In  the  silence  which  followed,  the  only  sound  seemed 
to  be  the  drone  of  some  machine,  probably  from  the 
electric-light  plant.  The  face  of  Ned  was  mildly  sur- 
prised but  quite  impassive.  He  answered  without  a 
moment's  hesitation : 

"  Naw !     I  doan't  know." 

There  was  a  terrible  moment  in  which  the  click  of  the 


THE  GREAT  UNIMrKESSIOXABLE      229 

revolver  could  almost  be  heard.  It  seemed  to  hover  iu 
front  of  his  face  for  an  unconscionable  time,  then  sud- 
denly the  German  lowered  it  with  a  curse,  and  leaning 
forward,  he  struck  Ned  on  the  side  of  his  face  with  the 
flat  of  his  hand.  He  treated  the  Scotsman  in  the  same 
way,  causing  his  nose  to  bleed.  Both  of  the  men  re- 
mained quite  impassive.  Then  he  walked  back  to  his 
seat,  and  said  calmly : 

"  Unless  you  can  refresh  your  memories  within  the 
next  two  hours  you  will  share  the  fate  of  —  that  swine. 
You  will  now  go  out  to  the  plantation  at  the  back  and 
dig  your  gi'aves.     Dig  three  graves." 

He  spoke  sharply  in  Arabic  to  the  guards,  and  they 
were  led  out.  They  were  handed  a  spade  each,  two 
Arabs  held  torches  for  them  to  work  by,  and  four  others 
hovered  in  a  circle  twelve  paces  away.  The  soil  was 
light  sand,  and  digging  was  fairly  easy.  Each  man 
dug  his  own  grave  making  it  about  four  feet  deep. 
When  it  came  to  the  third  grave  the  Scotsman  whis- 
pered : 

"  Dig  deep,  mon." 

"  Deeper  than  others  ?  " 

"  Ay,  deep  enough  to  make  a  wee  trench." 

"  I  see." 

They  made  it  very  deep,  working  together  and  whis- 
pering. ^Vllen  it  was  practically  completed,  apparently 
a  sudden  quarrel  arose  between  the  men.  They  swore 
at  each  other,  and  the  Scotsman  sprang  out  of  the  trench 
and  gripped  ISTed  by  the  throat.  A  fearful  struggle  be- 
gan to  take  place  on  the  edge  of  the  grave.     The  guard 


230      THE  GREAT  UNIMPEESSIONABLE 

ran  up  and  tried  to  separate  them.  And  then,  durin 
the  brief  confusion  there  was  a  sudden  dramatic  de- 
velopment. Simultaneously  they  snatched  their  spades. 
Both  the  men  with  the  torches  were  knocked  senseless, 
and  one  of  them  fell  into  the  third  grave.  The  torches 
were  stamped  out  and  a  rifle  went  off.  It  was  fired  by 
a  guard  near  the  hut,  and  the  bullet  struck  another  Arab 
who  was  trying  to  use  his  bayonet.  Ned  brought  a 
fourth  man  down  with  his  spade  and  seized  his  rifle, 
and  the  Scotsman  snatched  the  rifle  of  the  man  who  had 
been  shot,  and  they  both  leapt  back  into  their  purposely 
prepared  trench. 

"  We  shallna  be  able  to  hold  this  long,  but  we'll  give 
them  a  run  for  their  money,"  said  the  Scotsman. 

The  body  of  one  Arab  was  lying  on  the  brink  of  their 
trench  and  the  other  in  the  trench  itself.  Fortunately 
they  both  had  bandoliers,  which  Ned  and  his  companion 
instantly  removed. 

"  You  face  east  and  I'll  take  west,"  said  the  Scotsman, 
his  eyes  glittering  in  the  dim  light.  "  I'm  going  to 
try  and  scare  that  Boche  devil." 

He  peppered  away  at  the  hut,  putting  bullets  through 
every  window  and  smashing  the  telephone  connection, 
which  was  a  fine  target  at  the  top  of  a  post  against  the 
sky.  Bullets  pinged  over  their  heads  from  all  direc- 
tions, but  there  was  little  chance  of  them  being  rushed 
while  their  ammunition  held  out.  However,  it  became 
necessary  to  look  ahead.  It  was  the  Scotsman'-s  idea 
in  digging  the  graves  to  plan  them  in  zig-zag  forma- 
tion.    The  end  of  the   furthest   one   was  barely   ton 


THE  GREAT  UNIMPRESSIOXiVELE      231 

paces  from  a  clump  of  aloes.  He  now  got  busy  with  his 
spade  whilst  Ned  kept  guard  in  both  directions,  occa- 
sionally firing  at  the  hut  and  then  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion into  the  darkness.  In  half-an-hour  the  Scotsman 
had  made  a  shallow  connection  between  the  three  graves, 
leaving  just  enough  room  to  crawl  through.  They  then 
in  turn  donned  the  turbans  of  the  two  fallen  Arabs, 
who  were  otherwise  dressed  in  a  kind  of  semi-European 
uniform. 

They  ended  up  with  a  tremendous  fusillade  against 
the  hut,  riddling  it  with  bullets;  then  they  crept  to  the 
end  of  the  furthest  grave,  and  leaving  their  rifles,  they 
made  a  sudden  dash  across  the  open  space  to  the  group 
of  aloes,  bending  low  and  limping  like  wounded 
Arabs. 

They  reached  them  in  safety,  but  there  were  many 
open  spaces  to  cover  yet.  As  they  emerged  from  the 
trees  JSTed  stumbled  on  a  dark  figure.  lie  kicked  it  and 
ran.  They  both  ran  zig-zag  fashion,  and  tore  off  their 
turbans  as  they  raced  along.  They  covered  nearly  a 
hundred  yards,  and  then  bullets  began  to  search  them  out 
again.  They  must  have  gone  nearly  a  mile  before  the 
Scotsman  gave  a  sudden  slight  groan. 

"  I'm  hit,"  he  said. 

He  stumbled  into  a  clump  of  bushes,  and  fell  down. 

"Is  it  bad?"  asked  Ned. 

"  Eh,  laddie,  I'm  doon,"  he  said  quietly.  He  put  his 
hand  to  his  side.  He  had  been  shot  through  tlie  lungs. 
Ned  stayed  with  him  all  night,  and  they  were  imdis- 
turbed.     Just  before  dawn  the  Scotsman  said: 


232      THE  GEEAT  UNIMPRESSIONABLE 

"  Eh,  mon,  but  yon  was  a  bonny  fight,"  and  he  turned 
on  his  back  and  died. 

Ned  made  a  rough  grave  with  his  hands,  and  buried 
his  companion.  He  took  his  identification-disc  and 
his  pocket-book  and  small  valuables,  with  the  idea  of 
returning  them  to  his  kin  if  he  should  get  through  him- 
self. He  also  took  his  water-flask,  which  still  for- 
tunately contained  a  little  water.  He  lay  concealed  all 
day,  and  at  night  he  boldly  donned  his  turban,  issued 
forth  and  struck  a  caravan-trail.  He  continued  this  for 
four  days  and  nights  hiding  in  the  day-time  and  walking 
at  night.  He  lived  on  figs  and  dates,  and  one  night  he 
raided  a  village  and  caught  a  fowl,  which  also  nearly 
cost  him  his  life. 

On  the  fourth  night  his  water  gave  out,  and  he  was 
becoming  light-headed.  He  stumbled  on  into  the  dark- 
ness. He  was  a  desperate  man.  All  the  chances  were 
against  him,  and  he  felt  unmoved  and  fatalistic.  He 
drew  his  clasp-knife  and  gripped  it  tightly  in  his  right 
hand.  He  was  hardly  conscious  of  what  he  was  doing, 
and  where  he  was  going.  The  moon  was  up,  and  after 
some  hours  he  suddenlv  beheld  a  small  oblonsr  hut.  He 
got  it  into  his  head  that  this  was  the  hut  where  his 
German  persecutor  was.  He  crept  stealthily  towards 
it. 

"  I'll  kill  that  swine,"  he  muttered. 

He  was  within  less  than  a  hundred  yards  of  the  hut, 
when  a  voice  called  out : 

"'Alt!     Who  goes  there?" 

"  It's  me,"  he  said.     "  Doan't  thee  get  in  my  way.     I 


THE  GREAT  UXIMPRESSIOXiiBLE      233 

■want  to  kill  liini.  I'm  going  to  kill  him.  I'm  going  to, 
I  tell  you.  I'm  going  to  stab  him  through  his  black 
heart." 

"  What  the  hell !  " 

The  sentry  was  not  called  upon  to  use  his  rifle,  for 
the  turbaned  figure  fell  forward  in  a  swoon. 

Three  weeks  later  Ned  wrote  to  his  mother  from 
Bethlehem  (where  Christ  was  born),  and  this  is  what  he 
said: 

"  Dear  mother,  Everything  going  on  all  right.  I  got 
three  parcels  here  altogether  as  I  had  been  away  copped 
by  some  black  devils  an  unfriendly  tribe.  I  got  back 
all  right  though.  The  ointment  you  sent  me  was  fine 
and  so  was  them  rock  cakes.  What  a  funny  thing  about 
Belle  getting  lost  at  the  picnick.  We  got  an  awful 
soaking  from  the  Mid-Lanes  Fusiliers  on  Saturday. 
They  had  two  league  cracks  playing  one  a  wonderful 
center  forward.  He  scored  three  goals.  They  beat  us 
by  7-0.  The  weather  is  hot  but  quite  pleasant  at  night. 
We  have  an  old  sergeant  who  was  born  in  America  does 
wonderful  tricks  with  string  and  knots  and  so  on.  He 
tells  some  very  tall  yarns.  You  have  to  take  them  with 
a  pinch  of  salt.  Were  getting  fine  grub  here  pretty 
quiet  so  far.  Hope  Henry  remembers  to  wash  Toffee 
with  that  stuff  every  week  or  so.  Sony  to  hear  Len 
Cotton  killed.  Is  his  sister  still  walking  out  with  that 
feller  at  Aynliam.  I  never  think  he  was  much  class 
for  her  getting  good  money  though.  Hope  you  have  not 
had  any  more  trouble  with  the  boiler.  That  was  a  good 
price  to  get  for  that  old  buck  rabbit.     Well  there's 


234     THE  GREAT  UNIMPRESSIONABLE 

nothing  more  just  now  and  so  with  love  your  loving 
son,  Ned." 

Ned  went  through  the  Palestine  campaign  and  was 
slightly  wounded  in  the  thigh.  After  spending  some 
time  in  hospital  he  was  sent  to  the  coast  and  put  on 
duty  looking  after  Turkish  prisoners.  He  remained 
there  six  months  and  was  then  shipped  to  Italy.  On 
the  way  the  transport  was  torpedoed.  He  was  one  of  a 
painty  of  fifty-seven  picked  up  by  French  destroyers. 
He  had  been  for  over  an  hour  in  the  water  in  his  life- 
belt. He  was  landed  in  Corsica  and  there  he  developed 
pneumonia.  He  only  wrote  his  mother  one  short  note 
about  this: 

"  Dear  mother,  Have  been  a  bit  dicky  owing  to  fall- 
ing in  the  water  and  getting  wet.  But  going  on  all 
right.  Nurses  very  kind  and  one  of  the  doctors  rowed 
for  Cambridge  against  Oxford.  I  forget  the  year  but 
Cambridge  won  by  two  and  a  half  lengths.  We  have 
very  nice  flowers  in  the  ward.  Well  not  much  to  write 
about  and  so  with  love  your  loving  son,  Ned." 

Ned  was  fit  again  in  a  few  weeks  and  he  was  sent  up 
to  the  Italian  front.  He  took  part  in  several  engage- 
ments and  was  transferred  to  the  French  front  during 
the  last  months  of  the  war.  He  was  in  the  great  retreat 
in  March  1918  and  in  the  advance  in  July.  After 
the  armistice  he  was  with  the  army  of  occupation  on 
the  banks  of  the  Rhine.  His  mother  wrote  to  him 
there : 

"  My  dear  Ned,  Am  glad  that  this  fighting  is  now  all 
over  dear.     How  relieved  you  must  be.     Mr.  Filter  was 


THE  GEEAT  UNIMPRESSTOXABLE      235 

in  Sunday.  lie  thinks  tliere  will  be  no  difficulty  about 
you  gettin  your  job  back  when  you  come  back  dear. 
Miss  SifFkins  as  been  deliverin  but  as  Mr.  Filter  says 
its  not  likely  a  girl  is  going  to  be  able  to  deliver  letters 
not  like  a  man  can  and  that  dear.  So  now  you  will  be 
comin  home  soon  dear.  That  will  be  nice.  We  had  a 
pleesant  afternoon  at  the  Church  needlewomens  gild. 
Miss  Barbary  Banstock  sang  very  plcesantly  abide  with 
me  and  the  vicar  told  a  very  amusing  story  about  a  little 
girl  and  a  prince  and  she  didn't  know  he  was  a  prince 
and  talked  to  him  just  as  though  he  was  a  man  it  was 
very  amusin  dear.  I  hear  Ettie  is  goin  to  get  married 
next  month  they  wont  get  me  to  the  weddin  was  it  ever 
so  I  call  it  disgraceful  and  I  have  said  so.  Maud  Bean 
is  expectin  in  April  that  makes  her  forth  in  three  years. 
Mr.  Bean  has  lost  three  more  rabbits  they  say  its  rats 
this  time.  The  potatoes  are  a  poor  lot  this  time  but  the 
nmners  and  cabbidge  promiss  well.  So  now  dear  I  will 
close.  Hoppin  to  have  your  back  dear  soon,  your  loving 
mother." 

It  was,  however,  the  autumn  before  ISTed  was  de- 
mobilized. One  day  in  early  October  he  came  swinging 
up  the  village  street  carrying  a  white  kit-bag  slung 
across  his  left  shoulder.  He  looked  more  bronzed  and 
perhaps  a  little  thinner,  but  otherwise  little  altered  by 
his  five  years  of  war  experiences.  The  village  of 
Ashalton  was  quite  unaltered,  but  he  observed  several 
strange  faces;  he  only  met  two  acquaintances  on  the 
way  to  his  mother's  cottage,  and  they  both  said : 

^'  Hullo,  ISTed !     Ye're  home  agen  then !  " 


236      THE  GEEAT  UNIMPEESSIONABLE 

In  each  case  he  replied : 

"  Aj,"  and  grinned,  and  walked  on. 

He  entered  his  mother's  cottage,  and  she  was  ex- 
pecting him.  The  lamp  was  lighted  and  a  grand  tea 
spread.  There  was  fresh  boiled  beetroot,  tinned  sal- 
mon, salad,  cake,  and  a  large  treacle  tart.  She  em- 
braced him  and  said : 

"  Well,  ]STed !     Ye're  back  then." 

He  replied,  "  Ay." 

"  Ye're  lookin  fine,"  she  said.  "  What  a  fine  suit 
they've  given  ye !  " 

"  Ay,"  he  replied. 

"  I  expect  you  want  yer  tea  ?  " 

"  Ay." 

He  had  dropped  his  kit-bag,  and  he  moved  luxuriously 
round  the  little  parlor,  looking  at  all  the  familiar  ob- 
jects.. Then  he  sat  down,  and  his  mother  brought  the 
large  brown  tea-pot  from  the  hob  and  they  had  a  cozy 
tea.  She  told  him  all  the  very  latest  news  of  the  village, 
and  all  the  gossip  of  the  countryside,  and  ISTed  grinned 
and  listened.  He  said  nothing  at  all.  The  tea  had 
progressed  to  the  point  when  ISTed's  mouth  was  full  of 
treacle  tart  when  his  mother  suddenly  stopped,  and  said : 

"  Oh,  dear,  I'm  afraid  I  have  somethin'  distressin' 
to  tell  ye,  dear." 

"0-oh?  what's  that?" 

"  Poor  Toffee  was  killed." 

"What!" 

ISTed  stopped  suddenly  in  the  mastication  of  the 
treacle  tart.     His  eyes  bulged  and  his  cheeks  became 


THE  GREAT  UNIMPRESST0:N"ABLE      237 

very  red.  He  stared  at  his  mother  wildly,  and  re- 
peated. 

"  What's  that  ?     What's  that  ye  say,  mother  ?  " 

"  Poor  Toffee,  my  dear.  It  happened  right  at  the 
cross-roads.  Henry  was  takin'  him  out.  It  seems  he 
ran  round  in  front  of  a  steam-roller,  and  a  motor  came 
round  the  corner  sudden.  Heniy  called  out,  but  too 
late.  Went  right  over  his  back.  Poor  Henry  was  quite 
upset.  He  brought  him  home.  What's  the  matter, 
dear?" 

Xed  had  pushed  his  chair  back  and  he  stood  up.  He 
stared  at  his  mother  like  a  man  who  has  seen  horror 
for  the  first  time. 

"  WTiere  is  he where  was "  he  stammered. 

"  We  buried  'im,  dear,  under  the  little  mound  beyond 
the  rabbit  hutches." 

Ned  staggered  across  the  room  like  a  drunken  man, 
and  repeated  dismally: 

"  The  little  mound  beyond  the  rabbit  hutches !  " 

He  lifted  the  latch,  and  groped  his  way  into  the 
garden.  His  mother  followed  him.  He  went  along 
the  mud  path,  past  the  untenanted  hutches  covered  with 
tarpaulin.  Some  tall  sunflowers  stared  at  him  inso- 
lently. A  fine  rain  was  beginning  to  fall.  In  the  dim 
light  he  could  just  see  the  little  mound  —  signifying 
the  spot  where  Toffee  was  buried.  He  stood  there  bare- 
headed, gazing  at  the  spot.  His  mother  did  not  like 
to  speak.  She  tiptoed  back  to  the  door.  But  after  a 
time  she  called  out : 

"Ned!  .  .  .  Ned!" 


238      THE  GREAT  UNIMPRESSIONABLE 

He  did  not  seem  to  hear,  and  she  waited  patiently. 
At  the  end  of  several  minutes  she  called  again : 

"  Ned !  .  .  .  Ned  dear,  come  and  finish  your  tea." 

He  replied  quite  quietly: 

"  All  right,  mother." 

But  he  kept  his  face  averted,  for  he  did  not  want  his 
mother  to  see  the  tears  which  were  streaming  down  his 
cheeks. 


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